•57
LIBRARY
OF THE
WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE
Ancient ant) Jtlofcern
CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER
EDITOR
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE, LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE,
GEORGE H. WARNER
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
THIRTY VOLUMES
VOL. VIII
NEW YORK
R. S. PEALE AND ]. A. HILL
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1897
BY R. S. PEALE AND J. A. HILL
All rights reserved
V.?
THE ADVISORY COUNCIL
CRAWFORD H. TOY, A. M., LL. D.,
Professor of Hebrew, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, Cambridge, Mass.
THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL. D., L. H. D.,
Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of
YALE UNIVERSITY, New Haven, Conn.
WILLIAM M. SLOANE, PH. D., L. H. D.,
Professor of History and Political Science,
PRINCETON UNIVERSITY, Princeton, N. J.
BRANDER MATTHEWS, A. M., LL. B.,
Professor of Literature, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, New York City.
JAMES B. ANGELL, LL. D.,
President of the UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN, Ann Arbor, Mich.
WILLARD FISKE, A. M., PH. D.,
Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages
and Literatures, CORNELL UNIVERSITY, Ithaca, N. Y.
EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A. M., LL. D.,
Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer,
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, Berkeley, Cal.
ALCEE FORTIER, LIT. D.,
Professor of the Romance Languages,
TULANE UNIVERSITY, New Orleans, La.
WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A.,
Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of
English and History,
UNIVERSITY OF THE SOUTH, Sewanee, Tenn.
PAUL SHOREY, PH. D.,
Professor of Greek and Latin Literature,
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, Chicago, 111.
WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL. D.,
United States Commissioner of Education,
BUREAU OF EDUCATION, Washington, D. C.
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M., LL. D.,
Professor of Literature in thewM
CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY' OF AMERICA, Washington, D. C.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
VOL. VIII
LIVED PAGE
FELIX DAHN 1834- 4267
The Young Wife (< Felicitas >)
The Vengeance of Gothelindis ((The Struggle for Rome*)
OLOF VON DALIN 1708-1763 4278
BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER
From the Swedish Argus, No. XIII. — 1733
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR 1787-1879 4285
The Island (( The Buccaneer >)
The Doom of Lee (same)
Paul and Abel (( Paul Felton >)
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR 1815-1882 4302
A Dry Gale (<Two Years Before the Mast>)
Every-Day Sea Life (same)
A Start; and Parting Company (same)
DANTE 1265-1321 43*5
BY CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
From ( The New Life * : Beginning of Love ; First Saluta-
tion of His Lady; Praise of His Lady; Her Loveli-
ness; Her Death; The Anniversary of Her Death; The
Hope to Speak More Worthily of Her
From the < Banquet J : Consolation of Philosophy ; Desire
of the Soul; The Noble Soul at the End of Life
From the ( Divine Comedy >: Hell — Entrance on the Jour-
ney Through the Eternal World; Hell — Punishment
of Carnal Sinners; Purgatory — The Final Purgation;
Purgatory — Meeting with his Lady in the Earthly
Paradise; Paradise — The Final Vision
VI
JAMES DARMESTETER 1849-1894 4379
Ernest Renan (( Selected Essays')
Judaism (same)
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN 1809-1882 4385
BY E. RAY LANKESTER
Impressions of Travel ((A Naturalist's Voyage*)
Genesis of ( The Origin of Species * (( Life and Letters >)
Curious Atrophy of Esthetic Taste (same)
Private Memorandum concerning His Little Daughter
(same)
Religious Views (same)
Letters: To Miss Julia Wedgwood; To J. D. Hooker; To
T. H. Huxley; To E. Ray Lankester; To J. D. Hooker
The Struggle for Existence (( Origin of Species *)
Geometrical Ratio of Increase (same)
Of the Nature of the Checks to Increase (same)
Complex Relations of All Animals and Plants to Each
Other in the Struggle for Existence (same)
Of Natural Selection: or the Survival of the Fittest
(same)
Progressive Change Compared with Independent Creation
(same)
Creative Design (( Variation of Animals and Plants under
Domestication >)
Origin of the Human Species (< The Descent of Man >)
ALPHONSE DAUDET 1840- 4435
BY AUGUSTIN FILON
The Two Tartarins (< Tartarin of Tarascon>)
Of a Mental Mirage, w as Distinguished from Lying (same)
Death of the Dauphin (( Letters from My Windmill >)
Jack Is Invited to Take Up a w Profession w ('Jack*)
The City of Iron and Fire (same)
The Wrath of a Queen (( Kings in Exile >)
MADAME Du DEFFAND (Marie de Vichy-Chamrond)
1697-1780 447i
Letters: To the Duchesse de Choiseul; To Mr. Crawford;
To Horace Walpole
Portrait of Horace Walpole
Vll
LIVED PAGE
DANIEL DEFOE 1661-1731 4479
BY CHARLES FREDERICK JOHNSON
From ( Robinson Crusoe > : Crusoe's Shipwreck ; Crusoe
Makes a New Home; A Footprint
From < History of the Plague in London > : Superstitious
Fears of the People; How Quacks and Impositors
Preyed on the Fears of the People; The People Are
Quarantined in Their Houses; Moral Effects of the
Plague; Terrible Scenes in the Streets; The Plague
Due to Natural Causes; Spread of the Plague through
Necessities of the Poor
From < Colonel Jack > : Colonel Jack and Captain Jack
Escape Arrest; Colonel Jack Finds Captain Jack Hard
to Manage; Colonel Jack's First Wife Is Not Disposed
to be Economical
The Devil Does Not Concern Himself with Petty Matters
(<The Modern History of the Devil >)
Defoe Addresses His Public (< An Appeal to Honor and
Justice J)
Engaging a Maid-Servant (( Everybody's Business is No-
body's Business ')
The Devil (< The True-Born Englishman >)
There Is a God (<The Storm >)
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER 1820-1887 45J3
Multatuli's Last Words to the Reader (( Max Havelaar>)
Idyll of Said j ah and Adinda (same)
THOMAS DEKKER I57o?-i637? 4521
From ( The Gul's Home Booke > : How a Gallant Should
Behave Himself in Powles Walk; Sleep
Praise of Fortune ((Old Fortunatus*)
Content (< Patient Grissil >)
Rustic Song (<The Sun's Darling >)
Lullaby (< Patient Grissil })
JEAN FRANCOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE 1793-1843 4528
BY FREDERIC LOLIEE
Confession of Louis XI
Vlll
1.1 VKD PAGK
DEMOSTHENES 384-322 B. C. 4535
BY ROBERT SHARP
The Third Philippic
Invective Against License of Speech
Justification of His Patriotic Policy
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 1785-1859 4555
BY GEORGE R. CARPENTER
Charles Lamb (( Biographical Essays >)
Despair ^Confessions of an English Opium-Eater*)
The Dead Sister (same)
Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow (same)
Savannah-La-Mar (same)
The Bishop of Beauvais and Joan of Arc (* Miscellaneous
Essays })
PAUL D&ROULEDE 1846- 4580
The Harvest (< Chants du Paysan*)
In Good Quarters OPoemes Militaires*)
"Good Fighting >J (same)
Last Wishes (same)
REN£ DESCARTES 1596-1650 4585
Of Certain Principles of Elementary Logical Thought
(( Discourse on Method*)
An Elementary Method of Inquiry (same)
The Idea of God (< Meditations >)
PAUL DESJARDINS 4596
BY GRACE KING
The Present Duty
Conversion of the Church
Two Impressions (( Notes Contemporaines *)
SIR AUBREY DE VERK 1788-1846 4609
The Crusaders
The Children Band ((The Crusaders >)
The Rock of Cashel
The Right Use of Prayer
The Church
Sonnet
IX
LIVED PAGE
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO 1498-1593 4613
From the ( True History of the Conquest of Mexico > : Cap-
ture of Guatimotzin ; Mortality at the Conquest of
Mexico; Cortes; Of Divine Aid in the Battle of Santa
Maria de la Vitoria; Cortes Destroys Certain Idols
CHARLES DIBDIN 1745-1814 4620
Sea Song Poor Jack
Song: The Heart of a Tar Tom Bowling
CHARLES DICKENS 1812-1870 4625
BY LAURENCE HUTTON
The One Thing Needful (<Hard Times')
The Boy at Mugby (( Mugby Junction >)
Burning of Newgate (( Barnaby Rudge *)
Monseigneur ((A Tale of Two Cities')
The Ivy Green
DENIS DIDEROT 1713-1784 4689
From ( Rameau's Nephew J
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT 1814-1881 47°4
A Man of Business (( The Amazon >)
The Watchman
DIOGENES LAERTIUS 2001-250 A. D. ? 4711
Life of Socrates (( Lives and Sayings of the Philosophers >)
Examples of Greek Wit and Wisdom : Bias ; Plato ; Aristip-
pus; Aristotle; Theophrastus ; Demetrius; Antisthenes;
Diogenes; Cleanthes; Pythagoras
ISAAC D'ISRAELI 1766-1848 4725
Poets, Philosophers, and Artists Made by Accident (< Curi-
osities of Literature')
Martyrdom of Charles the First (( Commentaries on the
Reign of Charles the First*)
SYDNEY DOBELL 1824-1874 4733
Epigram on the Death of Edward Forbes
How's My Boy ?
The Sailor's Return
Afloat and Ashore
SYDNEY DOBELL — Continued:
The Soul (< Balder >)
England (same)
America
Amy's Song of the Willow (( Balder*)
AUSTIN DOBSON 1840-' 4741
BY ESTHER SINGLETON
On a Nankin Plate The Ladies of St. James's
The Old Sedan-Chair Dora versus Rose
Ballad of Prose and Rhyme Une Marquise
The Cure's Progress A Ballad to Queen Elizabeth
« Good-Night, Babbette» The Princess De Lamballe
(< Four Frenchwomen ')
MARY MAPES DODGE 1840?- 4757
The Race (< Hans Brinker >)
JOHN DONNE I573-i63i 477*
The Undertaking Song
A Valediction Forbidding Love's Growth
Mourning Song
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTO&VSKY 1821-1881 4779
BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD
From ( Poor People ' : Letter from Varvara Dobrosyeloff
to Makar Dyevushkin; Letter from Makar Dyevushkin
to Varvara Alexievna Dobrosyeloff
The Bible Reading (< Crime and Punishment')
EDWARD DOWDEN 1843- 4806
The f Humor of Shakespeare ( ( Shakespeare ; a Critical
Study of His Mind and Art')
Shakespeare's Portraiture of Women (< Transcripts and
Studies ')
The Interpretation of Literature (same)
A. CONAN DOYLE l&59~ 4815
The Red-Headed League (( The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes >)
Bowmen's Song (( The White Company ')
XI
LIVED PAGE
HOLGER DRACHMANN 1846- 4840
The Skipper and His Ship (( Paul and Virginia of a
Northern Zone >)
The Prince's Song (< Once Upon a Time >)
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 1795-1820 4851
A Winter's Tale (<The Croakers')
The Culprit Fay
The American Flag
LIST OF PORTRAITS
IN VOL. VIII
Felix Dahn
Richard Henry Dana, Senior
Richard Henry Dana, Junior
Dante
Charles Darwin
Alphonse Daudet
Madame Du Deffand
Daniel Defoe
Casimir Delavigne
Demosthenes
Thomas De Quincey
Paul Deroulede
Rene Descartes
Paul Desjardins
Aubrey De Vere
Charles Dibdin
Charles Dickens
Denis Diderot
Franz von Dingelstedt
Isaac D 'Israeli
Austin Dobson
Mary Mapes Dodge
John Donne
Feodor Mikhailovitch Dostoevsky
A. Conan Doyle
Holger Drachmann
Joseph Rodman Drake
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4267
FELIX DAHN
(1834-)
)ELIX DAHN was born at Hamburg, February 9th, 1834, but
when he was only six weeks old the family removed to
Munich. His parents, Friedrich and Constance Dahn, were
celebrated actors, and members of the Royal Theatre at Munich.
His childhood, youth, and early manhood were passed in Munich,
with the exception of one year (1852-3) spent at the University of
Berlin. A somewhat lonely but not unhappy childhood in the fine
old house in the Koniginstrasse, with its surroundings of parks and
pleasant gardens, developed his dreamy,
poetic instincts. His first poem, written at
the age of fourteen, is the spontaneous
lyric outburst of a boy's joy in nature.
Dahn was educated at the Latin school
and the University of Munich. He was
but a lad when Homer opened to him a
new world. He began to read the Iliad,
and scarcely left off night or day until it
was finished. The Odyssey followed in the
same way; and in two months he had read
them both and begun again at the begin-
ning. Poetry had rendered his mind sus-
ceptible to learning, and he read, in school
and out, every classic that fell into his hands. History as well as
poetry early became a passion to him, and the uniformity of his
intellectual development made every province of learning his own.
The Teutonic languages, old and new, Anglo-Saxon, Gothic, Norse,
etc,, as well as Latin, Greek, French, Italian, Spanish, and English,
were easily assimilated. At the university, both at Munich and Berlin,
he devoted himself to history, philosophy, and jurisprudence. In 1857
he became decent in the faculty of law at the University of Munich,
and in 1862 was made professor. In the following year he was
appointed professor of German law and jurisprudence at Wiirzburg,
and in 1872 he was called to Konigsberg to the same chair, and in
1888 to Breslau. He took part in the war of 1870-71, and was
present at the battle of Sedan.
Dahn is distinguished as a historian, novelist, poet, and dramatist.
His principal historical works are — ( Die Konige der Germanen >
FELIX DAHN
4268
FELIX DAHN
(The Kings of the Germans), 1861-72, 6 vols. ; ( Urgeschichte der
Germanischen und Romanischen Volkei0 (Primitive History of the
Germanic and Romance Peoples), 1878. These two rank high among
the contributions to German history and ethnology in the nineteenth
century. Among his most prominent works in law is * Die Vernunft
im Recht) (Reason in Law), 1879. As a poet and dramatist, several
of his performances have attained eminence. In 1857 he published
his first collection of poems, and a second collection followed in 1873.
<Zw6lf Balladen* (Twelve Ballads) appeared in 1875, and (Balladen
und Lieder* (Ballads and Songs) in 1878. By far his greatest
romance is < Der Kampf um Rom* (The Struggle for Rome), 1876, a
work of pre-eminent power and merit. It is a voluminous study, a
series of elaborate pictures, dealing with the empires of the East and
the West in the sixth century. Its scenes are chiefly laid in
Ravenna, at the time of that city's great splendor under the Gothic
sovereignty, and at Rome. The fierce and beautiful Amalaswintha
(also called often Amalasonta) is a prominent character; and other
vivid types are Cassiodorus, Totila, and Mataswintha. Following
this novel, among others, appeared in 1878 ( Kampf ende Herzen*
(Struggling Hearts); in 1880, (Odhins Trost* (Odin's Consolation);
and in 1882-90 a series of historical novels tinder the common title
(Kleine Romane aus der Volkerwanderung > (Short Novels from the
Wandering of the Nations), from the first of which, 'Felicitas,'
an appended extract is taken.
Among his dramas are { Markgraf Riideger von Bechelaren > ;
( Konig Roderich > ; and ( Deutsche Treue > (German Fidelity).
THE YOUNG WIFE
From <Felicitas>: copyrighted by George S. Gottsberger, 1883. Reprinted by
permission of George G. Peck
IT WAS a beautiful June evening. The sun, setting in golden
radiance, cast its glittering rays from the west, from Vinde-
licia, upon the Hill of Mercury and the modest villa crown-
ing it.
Only a subdued murmur reached this spot from the high-
way, along which ever and anon a two-wheeled cart, drawn by
Norican oxen, was moving homeward from the western gate of
Juvavum, — the porta Vindelica, — as were also the country people
who had been selling vegetables, hens, and doves in the Forum
of Hercules during the day just ended.
FELIX DAHN
4269
So it was quiet and peaceful on the hill; beyond the stone
wall, which was lower than the height of a man, and which in-
closed the garden, nothing was heard save the rippling of the
little rivulet which, after leaving its marble basin at its source,
fed the fountain, and then wound in graceful curves through the
carefully kept garden, and finally near the entrance, which was
surmounted by Hermes but destitute of door or grating, passed
under a gap in the wall and flowed down the hill in a stone
channel.
At the foot of this hill, towards the southeast, in the direc-
tion of the city, lay carefully tilled vegetable gardens and or-
chards, luxuriant green meadows, and fields of spelt, a grain
brought by the Romans to the land of the barbarians.
Behind the villa, on the ascending hillside, towered and
rustled a beautiful grove of beeches, from whose depths echoed
the metallic notes of the yellow thrush.
The scene was so beautiful, so peaceful; only in the west and
the southeast could a dark cloud be seen.
From the open gateway a straight path, strewn with white
sand, led through the spacious garden, and was bordered with
lofty evergreen oaks and clumps of yew-trees; the latter, accord«
ing to a long prevailing fashion, clipped into all sorts of geo-
metrical figures, — a token of taste, or the lack of it, the Rococo
age did not invent, but merely borrowed from the gardens of
the emperors.
Statues stood at regular distances along the way from the
gate to the entrance of the dwelling; nymphs, a Flora, a
Silvanus, a Mercury, — poor specimens of work executed in
plaster; fat Crispus manufactured them by the dozen in his
workshop on the square of Vulcanus at Juvavum, and sold
them cheap; times were hard for men, and still worse for gods
and demigods, but these were a free gift. Crispus was
brother to the father of the young master of the house.
From the garden gate sounded a few hammer-strokes, echoed
back from the stone wall of the inclosure; they were light taps,
for they were cautiously guided by an artist's hand, apparently
the last finishing touches of a master.
The man who wielded the hammer now started up — he had
been kneeling behind the gate, beside which, piled one above
another, a dozen unhewn marble slabs announced the dwelling
of a stone-cutter. Thrusting the little hammer into the belt
4270
FELIX DAHN
that fastened the leather apron over the blue tunic, he poured
from a small flask a few drops of oil on a woolen cloth, and
carefully rubbed the inscription upon the marble with it until
it was as smooth as a mirror; then turning his head a little
on one side, like a bird that wants to examine something
closely, with an approving nod he read aloud the words on
the slab: —
w Hie habitat Felicitas.
Nihil mali intret.w
<(Yes, yes! Here dwells happiness: my happiness, our hap-
piness— so long as my Felicitas lives here, happy herself and
making others happy. May misfortune never cross this thresh-
old! may every demon of ill be banished by this motto! The
house has now received a beautiful finish in these words. But
where is she ? She must see it and praise me. Felicitas, " he
called, turning towards the house, "come here!"
Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he stood erect — a
pliant youthful figure of middle height, not unlike the Mercury
in the garden, modeled by Crispus according to the ancient tra-
ditions of symmetry; dark-brown hair, cut short, curled closely,
almost like a cap, over his uncovered round head; a pair of
dark eyes, shaded by heavy brows, laughed merrily out into
the world; his bare feet and arms were beautifully formed,
but showed little strength, — it was only in the right arm that
the muscles stood forth prominently; the brown leather apron
was white with scrapings from the marble. He shook off the
dust and called again in a louder tone, " Felicitas ! w
A white figure, framed like a picture between the two pilas-
ters of the entrance, appeared on the threshold, pushing back
the dark yellow curtain suspended from a bronze pole by mova-
ble rings. A very young girl — or was it a young wife ? Yes,
this child, scarcely seventeen, must have already become a wife,
for she was undoubtedly the mother of the infant she pressed to
her bosom with her left arm; no one but a mother holds a child
with such an expression in face and attitude.
The young wife pressed two fingers of her right hand, with
the palm turned outward, warningly to her lips. "Hush," she
said ; " our child is asleep. "
And now the slender figure, not yet wholly matured, floated
down the four stone steps leading from the threshold to the
garden, carefully lifting the child a little higher and holding it
FELIX DAHN
4271
still more closely with her left arm, while her right hand raised
her snowy robe to the dainty ankle ; the faultlessly beautiful oval
head was slightly bent forward : it was a vision of perfect grace,
even more youthful, more childlike than Raphael's Madonnas,
and not humble, yet at the same time mystically transfigured,
like the mother of the Christ-child; there was nothing compli-
cated, nothing miraculous, naught save the noblest simplicity
blended with royal grandeur in Felicitas's unconscious innocence
and dignity. The movements of this Hebe who had become a
mother were as measured and graceful as a perfect musical
harmony. A wife, yet still a maiden; purely human, perfectly
happy, absorbed and satisfied by her love for her young husband
and the child at her breast; so chaste in coloring was the per-
fect beauty of her form and face that every profane desire van-
ished in her presence as though she were a statue.
She wore no ornaments; her light-brown hair, gleaming with
a gold tinge where the sun kissed it, was drawn back in natural
waves from the beautiful temples, revealing the low forehead, and
was fastened in a loose knot at the nape of the neck; a milk-
white robe of the finest wool, fastened on the left shoulder by
an exquisitely shaped but plain silver clasp, fell in flowing folds
around her figure, — revealing the neck, the upper part of the
swelling bosom, and the still childish arms which seemed a little
too long, — and reached to the ankles, just touching the dainty
scarlet leather sandals; beneath the breast one end of the robe
was drawn through a bronze girdle a hand's-breadth wide.
So she glided noiselessly as a wave down the steps and up to
her husband. The narrow oval face possessed the marvelous,
almost bluish, white tint peculiar to the daughters of Ionia, which
no Southern noonday sun can brown; the semi-circular eyebrows,
as regular as if marked by a pair of compasses, might have
given the countenance a lifeless, almost statuesque expression,
had not under the long low-curling lashes the dark -brown ante-
lope eyes shone with the most vivid animation as she fixed them
on her beloved husband.
The latter rushed towards her with elastic steps; carefully
and tenderly taking the sleeping child from her arm, he laid it
under the shade of a rose-bush in the oval shallow straw lid of
his work-basket; one full-blown rose waving in the evening
breeze tossed fragrant petals on the little one, who smiled in
sleep.
FELIX DAHN
The master of the house, throwing his arm around his young
wife's almost too slender waist, led her to the slab just completed
for the threshold of the entrance, saying : —
tt The motto I have kept secret — which I have worked so
hard to finish — is now done ; read it, and know, and feel w —
here he tenderly kissed her lips — <( you — you yourself are the
happiness; you dwell here."
Translation erf Mary J. Safford.
THE VENGEANCE OF GOTHELINDIS
From <The Struggle for Rome>
THE slave silently opened a door in the marble walls. Amalas-
wintha entered, and stood in the narrow gallery which ran
around the basin. Just in front, low steps led into the
magnificent bath, from which already warm delicious odors were
rising. Light fell in from above through an octagonal dome of
finely cut glass. At the entrance was a flight of steps of cedar
wood, which led up twelve stairs to a spring-board. Round
about the marble walls of the gallery, as well as of the basin,
countless friezes hid the mouths of the pipes needed for the
water-works and the hot air.
Silently the bath-woman spread the bathing accessories over
the soft cushions and carpets that covered the floor of the gal-
lery, and turned toward the door.
<( Why is it that I feel that I know you ? w asked the princess,
looking at her thoughtfully. <( How long have you been here ? w
<{ Since eight days. " And she took hold of the door.
* How long have you served Cassiodorus ? w
* I have always served the Princess Gothelindis. w
With a cry of terror Amalaswintha started up at this name.
She turned and grasped at the garment of the woman — too late!
She was gone, the door fell to. Amalaswintha heard the key
drawn out of the lock.
In vain her eye sought for another place of exit. Then an
immense unnamable fear overcame the queen. She felt that
she had been terribly deceived, that here was hidden a disastrous
secret. Fear, nameless fear, fell upon her. Flight, flight out of
this chamber was her one thought.
FELIX DAHN
4273
But flight seemed impossible; the door from this side was
now only a thick marble slab, like those at the right and the
left. Not even a pin could penetrate through the seams. In
despair her eyes traveled around the wall of the gallery. Only
the tritons and dolphins stared back at her. At last her gaze
rested on the snake-enwreathed head of the Medusa just opposite,
and she uttered a cry of terror. The face of the Medusa was
pushed aside, and the oval space under the snaky hair was filled
by a human countenance!
Was it a human countenance ?
Trembling, she clutched the marble railing, and leaning far
forward peered over: yes, those were the features of Gothelindis,
drawn to" a grimace; and a hell of hatred and scorn flamed in
her eyes.
Amalaswintha sank on her knees and hid her face.
<( You — you here ! w
Hoarse laughter answered her.
<(Yes, Amelung woman! I am here, and to your ruin! This
island, this house, is mine! It shall be your grave! Dolios and
all slaves of Cassiodorus are mine, sold to me a week ago. I
have lured you hither. I have followed you as your shadow.
Through long days and long nights I have borne within me
burning hatred, at length to taste here full revenge. For hours
I will enjoy your mortal agony, will witness miserable, moaning
terror shake as in fever that proud body and cover that haughty
face! — Oh, I will drink a sea of revenge!*
Amalaswintha rose, wringing her hands : — (< Revenge, Gothe-
lindis! Wherefore? Whence this deadly hatred of me?"
(< Ha, and you ask ? To be sure, decades have passed by, and
the heart of the happy soon forgets. But hatred has a more
faithful memory. Have you forgotten how once upon a time
two young girls played beneath the plantains on the meadows of
Ravenna? Both were chief among their playmates. Both were
young, beautiful, and charming; the one daughter of a king, the
other daughter of the Baltha. And the girls had to choose a
queen for their games: and they chose Gothelindis, for she was
yet more beautiful than you, and not as imperious; and they
chose her once, twice in succession. But the daughter of the
king stood by, consumed by wild untamable pride, — pride and
envy; and when they chose me for the third time, she took up
the sharp-pointed garden scissors — "
VII— 268
4274
FELIX DAHN
"Stop! oh, hush, Gothelindis!"
<( — And flung it at me. And it hit its mark, and crying out
and bloody I fell to the ground, my whole cheek a gaping
wound, and my eye, my eye pierced. Ah, how that hurts, even
now ! }>
(< Pardon, forgive, Gothelindis ! w moaned the prisoner. <(You
had forgiven me long ago.M
<( Forgiven ? I forgive you ? That you robbed my face of its
eye, and my life of its beauty, shall I forgive that ? You had
got the better of me for life; Gothelindis was no longer danger-
ous; she mourned in silence, the disfigured one fled the eyes of
men. And years passed. Then out of Spain came to the court
of Ravenna the noble Eutharich, the Amaler with the dark eye
and the tender heart: he, ill himself, took pity on the ill, half-
blind one; and he talked with her kindly and compassionately,
with the ugly one, whom all else avoided. Oh, how that
refreshened my thirsting soul! And it was decided in order to
bury the old hatred between the two houses, to wipe away old
and recent guilt, — for the Duke of the Baltha, Alarich, had
likewise been executed on secret, unproved accusation, — that the
poor maltreated daughter of the Baltha should become the wife
of the noblest of the Amaler. When you heard that, you who
had disfigured me! you decided to take my lover from me —
not from jealousy, not because you loved him! no, from pride;
because you wanted as your own the chief man in the Gothic
Kingdom, the next male heir to the crown. You decided on
that, and you achieved it. Your father could not deny you any
wish; and Eutharich forgot at once his pity for the one-eyed
one, as soon as the hand of the beautiful daughter of the king
beckoned to him. For compensation — or was it for scorn ? —
they gave to me likewise an Amaler — Theodahad, the miserable
coward ! *
w Gothelindis, I swear to you, I never imagined that you loved
Eutharich ! How could I — w
<(To be sure, how could you think that the ugly one would
lift her thoughts so high ? Oh, you cursed one ! And if you
had loved him, and had made him happy — I would have for-
given you everything. But you did not love him, you can love
only the sceptre! You made him miserable. For years I saw
him at your side, bowed down, unloved, frozen to the marrow by
your coldness. Sorrow because of your chilling pride soon killed
FELIX DAHN
him! You, you have robbed me of my lover, and sent him to
the grave ! Revenge, revenge for him ! w
And the deep vault re-echoed the cry, w Revenge ! Revenge ! w
<( Help, ho!w cried Amalaswintha. She ran in despair along
the circle of the gallery, beating her hands against the marble
slab.
<( Yes, cry out ! No one hears you now but the god of ven-
geance. Do you think that for months I have curbed in my
hatred in vain ? How often, how easily, could I even in Ravenna
have reached you with poniard or poison! But no, I have lured
you hither. At the petition of my cousins, at your bed an hour
ago I restrained my uplifted arm from the stroke. Yes, for you
shall die slowly, inch by inch! for hours I will watch your mor-
tal agony increase.*
« Terrible one!»
w Oh, what are hours, compared to the decades through which
you have tortured me with my disfigurement, with your beauty,
with the possession of my lover ? What are hours compared to
decades? But you shall pay for it."
<( What will you do ? w cried the tortured one, again and again
looking for an escape along the walls.
(< Do ? I will drown you, slowly, slowly — in the water- works
of this bath — which your friend Cassiodorus built! You do
not know the pangs of jealousy and impotent fury I have suf-
fered in this house, when you shared the couch with Eutharich,
and I was among your followers and obliged to serve you. In
this bath, you haughty one, I have loosened your sandals and
dried the proud limbs. In this bath you shall die."
Gothelindis pressed a button. The floor of the basin of the
upper story, the circular metal plate, divided into two semicir-
cles. They disappeared to the right and left in the wall; the
prisoner in terror looked from the narrow gallery into the abys-
mal depth at her feet.
(< Remember my eye ! w cried Gothelindis, and then of a sud-
den the sluices at the bottom opened and the waters of the lake
rushed in, gurgling and foaming, and rose higher and higher
with terrible swiftness.
Amalaswintha saw certain death before her. She knew the
impossibility of escaping, or of softening with prayers her dev-
ilish enemy. But her old proud Amelung courage returned;
composedly she awaited her fate. Near her, to the right of the
4276
FELIX DAHN
entrance, she saw among the many friezes of Greek mythology
a representation of the death of Christ; that refreshed her soul.
She knelt down before the marble crucifix, clasped it with both
hands and prayed calmly with closed eyes, while the waters rose
and rose. Now they dashed against the steps of the gallery.
(< You are going to pray, are you, murderess ? w cried Gothe-
lindis furiously. <( Away from the crucifix ! Remember the three
dukes ! *
Of a sudden all the dolphins and tritons on the right side of
the octagon began to spout streams of hot water ; . white smoke
puffed out of the pipes.
Amalaswintha sprang up and rushed to the other side of the
gallery. <( Gothelindis, I forgive you ! Kill me, but do you like-
wise forgive my soul. w
And the water rose and rose. Already it surged over the
upper step and pushed slowly on to the floor of the gallery.
(< I forgive you ? Never ! Think of Eutharich ! * And from
the left the boiling streams of water hissed toward Amalaswin-
tha. She now fled toward the center, just opposite the head of
the Medusa, the only place where no stream from the pipes
could reach her.
If she mounted the springboard placed here, she could for a
little yet prolong her life. Gothelindis seemed to expect this, in
order to enjoy the prolonged agony. The water already foamed
on the marble floor of the gallery and moistened the feet of the
prisoner. Quickly she bounded up the brown shimmering steps,
and leaned against the railing of the bridge.
<( Hear me, Gothelindis! my last prayer! not for myself, — for
my people, for our people. Petros intends to despoil it and
Theodahad.»
<(Yes, I know, this realm is the uppermost care of your soul!
Despair! It is lost! These foolish Goths, who for centuries
preferred the Amaler to the Baltha, are sold and betrayed by
the house of the Amaler. Belisarius draws near, and there is
none to warn them.®
<(You are mistaken, fiend! They are warned. I their queen
have warned them. Hail to my people! Ruin to its enemies
and mercy to my soul ! " And with a quick leap she threw her-
self from the platform into the waters. Foaming they closed
over her.
Gothelindis stared at the place where her victim had stood.
FELIX DAHN
4277
<( She has disappeared, " she said.
Then she looked down into the water; the kerchief of Amala-
swintha was swimming on the surface.
<( Even in death this woman triumphs over me," she said
slowly. (< How long lasted the hatred ! and how short was re-
venge ! w
Translated for ( A Library of the World's Best Literature,* by R. H. Knorr.
4278
OLOF VON DALIN
(1708-1763)
BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER
[LOF VON DALIN, « the father of modern Swedish poetry, J)
was born at Vinberga, in Halland, Sweden, August 29th,
1708. He was one of the most important figures in Swedish
literature during a transitional period, which in consequence of the
influence he exercised has been called the <(Dalin age.w He was the
son of a clergyman, and studied at the University of Lund, where
under the instruction of Rydelius he particularly devoted himself to
French and English literature. At the age of twenty he went to
Stockholm in the capacity of tutor, and in 1731 he entered the gov-
ernment service.
His talents, brilliancy, and adaptability made him a universal
favorite, and his career was singularly unobstructed. He was the
embodiment of the vital new spirit which flashed upon the dullness
of the time, breaking up formalism and dead tradition and introdu-
cing into literature an element which was destined to transform it.
In 1732 there appeared in Stockholm a weekly paper, edited anony-
mously, devoted to literary topics and to the discussion of the questions
of the day. The publication of this little sheet was the immediate
result of Dalin's English proclivities. His studies in English litera-
ture had formed his mind upon a new model, and the Svenska
Argus (1732-1734) was the Swedish counterpart of the English Spec-
tator and a direct imitation of the example of Addison. The appear-
ance of the Argus was a revelation. The public, accustomed to the
monotonous dullness of its predecessors, was taken by storm by the
wit, piquancy, and verve of the new periodical. Its first issue already
relegated such publications as the Sedolarande Mercurius, itself only
two years older, to the limbo of things outgrown. The paper at
once attained universal popularity; and when the identity of the
young editor became known he was acclaimed as the foremost writer
of the land, and was overwhelmed with favors from every side.
His next work was ( Tankar om Kritiker * (Thoughts about Criti-
cisms), and the dramas ( Den Afundsjuke * (The Jealous Man), a com-
edy in imitation of Holberg, and <Brynhild,) a tragedy. Returning
from a tour, he created great enthusiasm by his ( Saga om Hasten >
(The Story of the Horse), 1739; a witty prose narrative, in which, in
OLOF VON DALIN
4279
the character of a horse, he related in a highly humorous manner
the history of Sweden. This was followed by the satire, strongly
suggestive of Swift, ( Aprilverk om var Herrliga Tid * (April-work of
Our Glorious Time), a piece of writing which delighted the public.
In 1742 appeared what was regarded by his contemporaries as the
attainment of his highest poetic efforts, { Svenska Friheten * (Swedish
Freedom), a didactic allegorical poem.
Dalin was ennobled in 1751, and the . youthful Queen of Sweden,
Louise Ulrika, sister of Frederick the Great, appointed him to the
double office of tutoring the young crown prince Gustav and writing
a complete history of Sweden. These compulsory duties, and the
frequent w festal w poems which in his capacity as court poet it de-
volved upon him to write, robbed him of the leisure to attempt any
sustained effort; and from this time, aside from his History, the only
products of his pen are (< occasional w poems, of which a large num-
ber have been preserved.
Dalin was the chief founder of the <( Vitterhets-Akademie w (Acad-
emy of Arts and Sciences), established by Queen Louise Ulrika in
!753> which in 1786, under Gustav III., was transformed into the
(< Vitterhets-, Historic-, och Antiquitats-Akademie.8 He was appointed
privy councilor in 1753, and subsequently being suspected of revolu-
tionary intrigues, he was banished from the court. He returned in
1761. During the period of the exile he worked upon his ( Svearikes
Historia* (History of the Kingdom of Sweden), which he ultimately
brought down to the period of Charles IX. This appeared in four
volumes, 1747-62. His collected works were published in 1767. He
died at Drottningholm, August i2th, 1763.
The immense influence of Dalin upon his age was disproportionate
to the merits of his writings, and must be ascribed to his personal-
ity and to the new elements which he introduced, rather than to his
creative genius. He was the force which opened new channels, the
power which directed the new tendencies of his day. He broke
away from the traditions of the German cult, which until his time
had been the ruling power, and brought into Swedish the potent ele-
ments of French and English literature. Together with Madame
Nordenflycht and other followers of his school, and aided by the
French influence of the court, he completely transformed the char-
acter of the national literature.
4280
OLOF VON DALIN
FROM THE SWEDISH ARGUS, NO. XIII.— 1733
Cupias non placuisse nimis
I HOPE you know me now, my reader, so that you will pardon
me if I write but little, since that happens merely in order
that I may set down the truth. I too am not my own mas-
ter; for my offspring have 'now taken it upon themselves to shut
off their speakers with that blow which makes for a creditable
piece of writing, but afflicts the truth. In which respect I for
the most resemble the fifth wheel of a wagon, and trouble
myself no more about it than many a town councilor or juryman
bothers his head about the verdicts which he signs and approves,
without making it my business to prove it true, and as if asleep,
give in my vote. You must also yourself admit, my just reader,
that it is necessary in our time to lie the truth in among the
people.
Our father Adam and mother Eve, it happened a short time
since, came up out of their graves and were at their estate Tiel-
kestad, where they presently proclaimed over the whole land a
diet, or assemblage, at which all their dear children of both
sexes should appear in person or by duly qualified substitute, in
order that their universal parents might see and rejoice in their
Northern seed, might learn how apt was each and how he had
improved his talent, and admonish him to do honor to his
creation.
Here was gathered together a considerable assembly of people.
Each one, from the greatest to the least, went forward to kiss
grandpapa's and grandmamma's hand. They bent and they
bowed, and most of the inhabitants of the land now vied with
each other with all their might of soul and body, with internal
and external senses, to see who should most please their first
parents. For it may be believed it was no joke to be able to
rejoice them with their excellence, now, some five thousand years
after their death, and to put in their minds the thought, (< See,
Adam, what a son you have ! w <( See, Eve, what a daughter ! w etc.
Adam, who honored the first creation, and loved nature's
activity, which tolerates no compulsions or additions, was amazed
when he saw his children, for he did not know half of them.
"Where have they come from?" said he. "They are never
mine, unless forsooth there shall have been a new creation, in
OLOF VON DALIN
4281
the overseeing of which neither God nor I has had a part. * Eve
had indeed been proud of so many offspring, but was somewhat
abashed at these words, and said, (< I should fear, sire, that you
made me out an indifferent woman, if all did not know that we
were alone in our conjugal state.* "Well enough is it web of
my weft,* he answered, (<but the children so disguise themselves
in their attempt to please, that they lose all the charm which a
spontaneous activity should otherwise most easily possess. Yet
what am I saying ? I readily see that our fall is the reason of
this and of many disorders. * (< It seems to me, * said Eve, (< that
you should have a review, and teach the poor children how they
should conduct themselves so as not to continue in so monstrous
a condition.*
Well, this was arranged, and all were now to pass before
the eye of Adam, whether they had changed themselves or not.
He had seated himself on a wall of earth, and all the liberal
arts stood round about him. <( Dear children, * said he to his
offspring, (<come forward now, in order that I may see how
you conduct yourselves. The inordinate desire of honor is the
reason for this new creation, — which does not however seek the
honor of the great Creator, but your own.* When any of his
children came forward who without affectation lisped their ten-
der thoughts, they were kissed with tears by the old man and
matron, who said that nature in them was not restrained, and
wished that they might henceforth continue in such freedom.
(< Behold, this, * said they, (< produces pleasure, without you your-
selves knowing it; and this is the kernel of the art of pleasing.*
Many court worshipers and people of the upper ranks of life,
where ambition takes firmest hold of the body, also went for-
ward, who for the most part had so well exercised themselves in
appearances that they seemed neither in action nor word to be
affected. These too won tolerably well, in this way, the com-
mendation of the old people. Yet there were some of them who
particularly thought to please kings and princes, who took upon
themselves a more zealous appearance than they had inherited,
and bore their bodies in greater state than birth had given them,
beneath costly garments arrayed in precise order, so that they
by this means spoiled all their beauty; for Adam had only aver-
sion for such artificial figures.
But what he did not have in them, he did have in a part of
those who followed. These were people of ordinary condition
4282
OLOF VON DALIN
who vied with the first, indeed with their own natures, in
acquiring charm. When these latter had noticed that the people
of rank had some fault or peculiar manner, then straightway
seized by this wretched desire of honor, they wished at least to
resemble the great in bagatelles. Some set one or two wrinkles
on their foreheads; some, a particular expression about the
mouth; some lisped or stammered purposely, and introduced
extraordinary sounds into their speech; some affected strange
laughter; some had a wonderful bend of the shoulders; some a
simulated walk; some gave themselves political or statistical
features, etc., etc.; and all directly opposed to their otherwise
natural manner. <( Yes, I can tell you right straight out, w said
Adam; <( I have not a little esteem for you: but listen, I will
tell you a little story. It has been told me that my famous son,
Alexander the Great, once upon a time twisted his neck out of
joint, so that he was obliged to walk with his head somewhat
awry. Straightway were all of his lords and his courtiers moved
to walk in the same manner, especially before his eyes, with the
thought of pleasing him exceedingly. But among those who,
whether out of zeal for their master or of love for themselves,
would particularly be like the king, one twisted his neck so
badly that his valiant prince, grown angry at such buffoonery,
gave him so heavy a blow that the cuff set the heads right
again of the whole court and army. If I were able now, I
would certainly deal out many an affectionate blow to remedy
all the evil habits with which you think to please me. w
(I wish that Argus had to-day the same smart as a box on
the ear, for we saw this morning many affected cripples as
sound and active as when they came into the world.)
(<A part of you,* continued Adam, <( I notice, compel your-
selves to limp and stoop very seriously and with great discom-
fort on canes, as if twenty-year-old legs were already afflicted
with the rich man's sickness. But if some one took the canes
and taught the young to spring, he would do rightly. Do you
think it is no advantage to have good legs ? If you think in
this manner to imitate celebrated people, as has been said, then
you shall know that it often offends him who is aped as much
as it disfigures the ape himself. "
Many of our women who daily vie with each other for
the possession of the greatest charm came forward, with the
idea that the old people's hearts would be rejoiced with their
OLOF VON DALIN
4283
comeliness. But that did not fall out well, since the one made
a grimace by setting her mouth in a churchly manner; the other
changed her features in that she wished to show her beautiful
teeth; the third turned her eyes so strangely that she both
blinked and squinted; the fourth had given herself a beautiful
skin with ingredients from the apothecary's shop; the fifth as-
sumed a fatigued gait; the sixth purposely appeared somewhat
ill and languid. A pastor's wife forced her mild countenance
into a scornful mien; a burgher's wife sweetened her mouth
with ill-pronounced French words, and kept her body immovable
because of her beautiful clothes; a merchant's daughter could
think of nothing else than to bow; another maiden twisted her
face over both shoulders with a stiff glance, etc. , etc. : so that
Eve said: — (<What is this? Will you please me with force? Ah,
foolish women, if you wish truly to please, then you should not
think of it. Such a thing must come to you unwittingly. M
When Eve said this, some men lamented the vanity and ele-
gant frivolity of a part of the women; but they were brought
up sharply, for Adam said: — (<Will you now again transform
nature, and make that into heaviness which is created for your
pleasure and refreshing help •? It befits you, it may be, better
than that to be ill-favored. If any of you are born to serious-
ness, then it well becomes that one that she is so; but if you
desire that others shall be like you and bother themselves with
your thoughts, then is that ill-conceived. For example, a woman
may indeed amuse herself with books and little acts of clever-
ness; but if she makes study her trade, then she becomes a
pedant. w
The malcontents, however, complained again that their mis-
tresses desired that men should resemble them in all things
except in sex, and hold them otherwise wholly as women. But
Adam replied: — (< If you are such fools, then shall you have
advice. I see many gallants who readily undergo such a trans-
formation, but that accords with their nature as does clay with
straw, and surely an intelligent woman does not like it herself. w
Further, Adam said : — (< Now I must laugh ! Look at that
bashful youth yonder in the crowd, who is so fearful of sinning
against the customs of affectation that he does not know how he
shall hold his hands. Now he sticks them here, and now there.
When he bows, he looks back with perplexity at all to see if he
did rightly. w
4284
OLOF VON DALIN
At that moment there came forward some scholars and poets,
who with references presented their works and verses, some of
which they read. But Adam said: — <( Children, you were born
to be shoemakers. You had understood awls better than pens.
At a trade you had wrought out profit and pleasure, but not
in study. Endowments are of many kinds, and every one must
consider which of them he has received."
Thereupon some of the clergy came forward with soft steps,
wholly assured that they would receive a caress from the old
man for every time they had named him in their sermons. But
when the pretended pious went along, he became straightway
displeased. What should there avail the measured-out words, and
the forced high-flown delivery, filled with roses without fragrance!
Suppose that he had seen some of them in the pulpit with their
comedian affectations, or how unbecomingly they threw them-
selves and moved about there! Adam said shortly to them,
(< Such nonsense is unnecessary in your sacred office. M In this
consisted the whole caress.
It is impossible for me to remember or to be able to describe
all of those who at this time disgraced themselves before father
Adam and mother Eve. This I know, that Japhet's grandsire
pronounced this word of admonition : — <( My descendants, " said
he, wlet it be fairly seen that you do not so badly disfigure your-
selves as you have hitherto done. Let not the one take the
other's talent and decry his own. Prove yourselves what char-
acter you own and abide with it; so shall you mark in each
other that there is not one who is not made pleasing in his way,
if it be rightly used. A surly man may be agreeable even in
his surliness, and so on. Moreover, everyone shall give himself
to the service in the state to which he is fallen, and shall not,
eager of honor, offer violence to nature, of which I see among
you so many examples that I just now — * Coughing deprived
the old man of words, so that he stopped short, and straightway,
as may be believed, the whole crowd made grimace upon grimace
and laughed at him. The poor old couple were glad to get away
from Tielkestad and lay themselves in their graves. So it went
with the assemblage. Yes, believe me, surely. He who will tell
the truth appears at times like a hen on a perch in windy
weather.
Translation of William H. Carpenter.
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
(1787-1879)
IICHARD HENRY DANA the elder, although he died less than
twenty years ago, belonged to the first generation of
American writers; he was born in 1787, in Cambridge, four
years after Washington Irving. He came of a distinguished and
scholarly family : his father had been minister to Russia during the
Revolution, and was afterwards Chief Justice of Massachusetts;
through his mother he was descended from Anne Bradstreet. At the
age of ten he went to Newport to live with his maternal grand-
father, William Ellery, one of the signers
of the Declaration of Independence, and
remained until he entered Harvard. The
wild rock-bound coast scenery impressed
him deeply, and ever after the sea was one
of his ruling passions. Only one familiar
with all the moods of the ocean could have
written ( The Buccaneer. ) After quitting
college he studied law, and was admitted
to the Boston bar. Literature however
proved the stronger attraction, and in 1818
he left his profession to assist in conducting
the then newly founded North American
Review. The critical papers he contributed
to it startled the conservative literary circles by their audacity in
defending the new movement in English poetry, and passing lightly
by their idol Pope. Indeed, his unpopularity debarred him from suc-
ceeding the first editor. He withdrew, and began the publication of
The Idle Man in numbers, modeled on Salmagundi and the Sketch-
Book. His contributions consisted of critical papers and his novel-
ettes <Paul Felton,> < Tom Thornton, > and < Edward and Mary.> Not
finding many readers, he discontinued it after the first volume. He
then contributed for some years to the New York Review, conducted
by William Cullen Bryant, and to the United States Review. In
1827 appeared <The Buccaneer and Other Poems*; in 1833 the same
volume was enlarged and the contributions to The Idle Man were
added, under the title < Poems and Prose Writings. } Seventeen years
later he closed his literary career by publishing the complete edi-
tion of his * Poems and Prose Writings, > in two volumes, not having
RICHARD H. DANA
4286 RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
materially added either to his verse or fiction. After that time he
lived in retirement, spending his summers in his seaside home by
the rocks and breakers of Cape Ann, and the winters in Boston. He
died in 1879.
Dana's literary activity falls within the first third of this century.
During that period, unproductive of great work, he ranked among the
foremost writers. His papers in the North American Review, as the
first original criticism on this side of the Atlantic, marked an era in
our letters. He was one of the first to recognize the genius of
Wordsworth and of Coleridge; under the influence of the latter he
wrote the poem by which he is chiefly known, ( The Buccaneer. * He
claimed for it a basis of truth ; it is in fact a story out of ( The
Pirate's Own Book,* with the element of the supernatural added to
convey the moral lesson. His verse is contained in a slender vol-
ume. It lacks fluency and melody, but shows keen perception of
Nature's beauty, especially in her sterner, more solemn moods, and
sympathy with the human heart. Dana was not so much a poet
born with the inevitable gift of song (he would otherwise not have
become almost silent during the last fifty years of his life), as a man
of strong intellect who in his youth turned to verse for recreation.
Though best known by his poems, he stands out strongest and
most original as novelist. ( Paul Felton,* his masterpiece in prose, is
a powerful study of a diseased condition of mind. In its searching
psychologic analysis it stands quite apart from the more or less flac-
cid production of its day. He indeed could not escape the influence
of Charles Brockden Brown, whom he greatly admired, and he in
turn reached out forward toward Poe and other writers of the
analytic school. One powerful story of Poe's, indeed, seems to have
been suggested by Dana's work : the demon horse in ( Metzenger-
stein * is a superior copy of the Spectre Horse in ( The Buccaneer. >
These stories were not popular in his day: they are too remote from
ordinary life, too gloomy and painful ; they have no definite locality
or nationality; their characters have little in common with every-day
humanity. His prose style however is clear, direct, and strong.
Even after he ceased to write, he had an important influence on
American letters by the independence of his opinions, his friendships
with literary men, chief among whom was Bryant, and his live
interest in the younger literature produced under conditions more
favorable and more inspiring than he had known.
T
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR 4387
THE ISLAND
From < The Buccaneer >
Island lies nine leagues away,
Along its solitary shore
Of craggy rock and sandy bay,
No sound but ocean's roar,
Save where the bold wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.
But when the light winds lie at rest,
And on the glassy, heaving sea,
The black duck with her glossy breast
Sits swinging silently,
How beautiful! no ripples break the reach.
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.
And inland rests the green, warm dell ;
The brook comes tinkling down its side ;
From out the trees the Sabbath bell
Rings cheerful, far and wide,
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks
That feed about the vale among the rocks.
Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat
In former days within the vale;
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet;
Curses were on the gale ;
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men :
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.
But calm, low voices, words of grace,
Now slowly fall upon the ear;
A quiet look is in each face,
Subdued and holy fear.
Each motion gentle; all is kindly done —
Come, listen how from crime this Isle was won.
4288 RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
w
THE DOOM OF LEE
From (The Buccaneer >
'HO'S sitting on that long black ledge
Which makes so far out in the sea,
Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge ?
Poor idle Matthew Lee !
So weak and pale ? A year and little more.
And bravely did he lord it round this shore!
And on the shingles now he sits,
And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands;
Now walks the beach; then stops by fits,
And scores the smooth wet sands;
Then tries each cliff and cove and jut that bounds
The isles; then home from many weary rounds.
They ask him why he wanders so,
From day to day, the uneven strand ?
"I wish, I wish that I might go!
But I would go by land;
And there's no way that I can find — I've tried
All day and night !M — He seaward looked, and sighed.
It brought the tear to many an eye
That once his eye had made to quail.
"Lee, go with us; our sloop is nigh;
Come! help us hoist her sail."
He shook. — (< You know the Spirit Horse I ride !
He'll let me on the sea with none beside!"
He views the ships that come and go,
Looking so like to living things.
O! 'tis a proud and gallant show
Of bright and broad-spread wings,
Making it light around them, as they keep
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep.
And where the far-off sand-bars lift
Their backs in long and narrow line,
The breakers shout, and leap, and shift,
And send the sparkling brine
Into the air, then rush to mimic strife:
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life! —
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR 4289
But not to Lee. He sits alone;
No fellowship nor joy for him.
Borne down by woe, he makes no moan,
Though tears will sometimes dim
That asking eye — oh, how his worn thoughts crave —
Not joy again, but rest within the grave.
To-night the charmed number's told.
<( Twice have I come for thee,8 it said.
<( Once more, and none shall thee behold.
Come! live one, to the dead!* —
So hears his soul, and fears the coming night;
Yet sick and weary of the soft calm light.
Again he sits within that room ;
All day he leans at that still board;
None to bring comfort to his gloom,
Or speak a friendly word.
Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse,
Poor shattered wretch, there waits he that pale Horse.
Not long he waits. Where now are gone
Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood
Beautiful, while the west sun shone
And bathed them in his flood
Of airy glory! — Sudden darkness fell;
And down they went, — peak, tower, citadel.
The darkness, like a dome of stone,
Ceils up the heavens. 'Tis hush as death —
All but the ocean's dull low moan.
How hard Lee draws his breath !
He shudders as he feels the working Power.
Arouse thee, Lee! up! man thee for thine hour!
'Tis close at hand; for there, once more,
The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame
And shafted fire she showed before ; —
Twice thus she hither came; —
But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws
A wasting light; then, settling, down she goes.
And where she sank, up slowly came
The Spectre Horse from out the sea.
And there he stands! His pale sides flame.
He'll meet thee shortly, Lee.
vni — 269
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RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
He treads the waters as a solid floor:
He's moving on. Lee waits him at the door.
They're met. " I know thou com'st for me,w
Lee's spirit to the Spectre said;
<( I know that I must go with thee —
Take me not to the dead.
It was not I alone that did the deed!"
Dreadful the eye of that still, spectral Steed!
Lee cannot turn. There is a force
In that fixed eye which holds him fast.
How still they stand! — the man and horse.
"Thine hour is almost past.w
<( Oh, spare me," cries the wretch, <(thou fearful one!"
<(My time is full — I must not go alone. *
"I'm weak and faint. Oh let me stay!"
<( Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee ! "
The horse and man are on their way;
He bears him to the sea.
Hark! how the Spectre breathes through this still night!
See, from his nostrils streams a deathly light !
He's on the beach, but stops not there;
He's on the sea! that dreadful horse!
Lee flings and writhes in wild despair!
In vain! The spirit-corse
Holds him by fearful spell ; he cannot leap.
Within that horrid light he rides the deep.
It lights the sea around their track —
The curling comb, and dark steel wave :
There yet sits Lee the Spectre's back —
Gone ! gone ! and none to save !
They're seen no more; the night has shut them in.
May Heaven have pity on thee, man of sin!
The earth has washed away its stain;
The sealed-up sky is breaking forth,
Mustering its glorious hosts again,
From the far south and north;
The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea. —
Oh, whither on its waters rideth Lee ?
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR 4291
PAUL AND ABEL
From <Paul Felton>
HE TOOK a path which led through the fields back of his
house, and wound among the steep rocks part way up the
range of high hills, till it reached a small locust grove,
where it ended. He began climbing a ridge near him, and
reaching the top of it, beheld all around him a scene desolate
and broken as the ocean. It looked for miles as if one immense
gray rock had been heaved up and shattered by an earthquake.
Here and there might be seen shooting out of the clefts, old
trees, like masts at sea. It was as if the sea in a storm had
become suddenly fixed, with all its ships upon it. The sun
shone glaring and hot on it, but there was neither life, nor
motion, nor sound; the spirit of desolation had gone over it, and
it had become the place of death. His heart sunk within him,
and something like a superstitious dread entered him. He tried
to rouse himself, and look about with a composed mind. It was
in vain — he felt as if some dreadful unseen power stood near
him. He would have spoken, but he dared not in such a place.
To shake this off, he began clambering over one ridge after
another, till, passing cautiously round a beetling rock, a sharp
cry from out it shot through him. Every small jut and preci-
pice sent it back with a Satanic taunt; and the crowd of hollows
and points seemed for the instant alive with thousands of fiends.
Paul's blood ran cold, and he scarcely breathed as he waited for
their cry again; but all was still. Though his mind was of a
superstitious cast, he had courage and fortitude; and ashamed of
his weakness, he reached forward, and stooping down looked into
the cavity. He started as his eye fell on the object within it.
<( Who and what are you ? w cried he. <( Come out, and let me
see whether you are man or devil. w And out crawled a miser-
able boy, looking as if shrunk up with fear and famine. (< Speak,
and tell me who you are, and what you do here," said Paul.
The poor fellow's jaws moved and quivered, but he did not utter
a sound. His spare frame shook, and his knees knocked against
each other as in an ague fit. Paul looked at him for a moment.
His loose shambly frame was nearly bare to the bones, his light
sunburnt hair hung long and straight round his thin jaws and
white eyes, that shone with a delirious glare, as if his mind had
been terror-struck. There was a sickly, beseeching smile about
4292
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
his mouth. His skin, between the freckles, was as white as a
leper's, and his teeth long and yellow. He appeared like one
who had witnessed the destruction about him, and was the only
living thing spared, to make death seem more horrible.
<( Who put you here to starve ? " said Paul to him.
(< Nobody, sir. "
<( Why did you come, then ? "
(<Oh, I can't help it; I must come. "
<( Must ! And why must you ? " The boy looked round tim-
idly, and crouching near Paul, said in a tremulous, low voice,
his eyes glancing fearfully through the chasm, (< Tis He, 'tis He
that makes me ! " Paul turned suddenly round, and saw before
him for the first time the deserted tract of pine wood and sand
which has been described. <( Who and where is he ? " asked Paul
impatiently, expecting to see some one.
<( There, there, in the wood yonder, w answered the boy,
crouching still lower, and pointing with his finger, whilst his
hand shook as if palsied.
<( I see nothing, " said Paul, w but these pines. What possesses
you ? Why do you shudder so, and look so pale ? Do you take
the shadows of the trees for devils ? "
<( Don't speak of them. They'll be on me, if you talk of
them here,** whispered the boy eagerly. Drops of sweat stood
on his brow from the agony of terror he was in. As Paul looked
at the lad, he felt something like fear creeping over him. He
turned his eyes involuntarily to the wood again. <( If we must
not talk here," said he at last, <(come along with me, and tell
me what all this means." The boy rose, and followed close to
Paul.
<( Is it the Devil you have seen, that you shake so ? "
(< You have named him ; I never must, " said the boy. (< I have
seen strange sights, and heard sounds whispered close to my
ears, so full of spite, and so dreadful, I dared not look round
lest I should see some awful face at mine. I've thought I felt it
touch me sometimes. w
(<And what wicked thing have you done, that they should
haunt you so ? "
w Oh, sir, I was a foolhardy boy. Two years ago I was not
afraid of anything. Nobody dared go into the wood, or even so
much as over the rocks, to look at it, after what happened
there." — a I've heard a foolish story," said Paul. — w So once, sir,
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
4293
the thought took me that I would go there a-bird's-nesting, and
bring home the eggs and show to the men. And it would never
go out of my mind after, though I began to wish I hadn't
thought any such thing. Every night when I went to bed I
would lie and say to myself, ( To-morrow is the day for me to
go ; * and I did not like to be alone in the dark, and wanted some
one with me to touch me when I had bad dreams. And when
I waked in the morning, I felt as if something dreadful was
coming upon me before night. Well, every day, — I don't know
how it was, — I found myself near this ridge; and every time I
went farther and farther up it, though I grew more and more
frightened. And when I had gone as far as I dared, I was
afraid to wait, but would turn and make away so fast that many
a time I fell down some of these places, and got lamed and
bruised. The boys began to think something, and would whis-
per each other and look at me; and when they found I saw
them, they would turn away. It grew hard for me to be one at
their games, though once I used to be the first chosen in I
can't tell how it was, but all this only made me go on; and as
the boys kept out of the way, I began to feel as if I must .do
what I had thought of, and as if there was somebody, I couldn't
think who, that was to have me and make me do what he
pleased. So it went on, sir, day after day,* continued the lad,
in a weak, timid tone, but comforted at finding one to tell his
story to ; <( till at last I reached as far as the hollow where you
just now frighted me so, when I heard you near me. I didn't
run off as I used to from the other places, but sat down under
the rock. Then I looked out and saw the trees. I tried to get
up and run home, but I couldn't; I dared not come out and go
round the corner of the rock. I tried to look another way, but
my eyes seemed fastened on the trees; I couldn't take 'em off.
At last I thought something told me it was time for me to go
on. I got up. n
Here poor Abel shook so that he seized hold of Paul's arm to
help him. Paul recoiled as if an unclean creature touched him.
The boy shrunk back.
<(Go on," said Paul recovering himself. The boy took com-
fort from the sound of another's voice : — (< I went a little way
down the hollow, sir, as if drawn along. Then I came to a
steep place; I put my legs over to let myself down; my knees
grew so weak I dared not trust myself; I tried to draw them up,
4294
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
but the strength was all gone out of them, and then my feet were
as heavy as if made of lead. I gave a screech, and there was a
yell close to me and for miles round, that nigh stunned me. I
can't say how, but the last thing I knew was my leaping along
the rocks, while there was nothing but flames of fire shooting
all round me. It was scarce midday when I left home; and
when I came to myself under the locusts it was growing dark. M
<( Rest here awhile, w said Paul, looking at the boy as at some
mysterious being, (< and tell out your story. w
Glad at being in company, the boy sat down upon the grass,
and went on with his tale : — (( I crawled home as well as I
could, and went to bed. When I was falling asleep I had the
same feeling I had when sitting over the rock. I dared not lie
in bed any longer, for I couldn't keep awake while there. Glad
was I when the day broke, and I saw a neighbor open his door
and come out. I was not well all day, and I tried to think
myself more ill than I was, because I somehow thought that
then I needn't go to the wood. But the next day He was not
to be put off; and I went, though I cried and prayed all the
way that I might not be made to go. But I could not stop till
I had got over the hill, and reached the sand round the wood.
When I put my foot on it, all the joints in me jerked as if they
would not hold together, so that I cried out with the pain. When
I came under the trees there was a deep sound, and great shad-
ows were all round me. My hair stood on end, and my eyes
kept glimmering; yet I couldn't go back. I went on till I
found a crow's nest. I climbed the tree, and took out the eggs.
The old crow kept flying round and round me. As soon as I
felt the eggs in my hand and my work done, I dropped from
the tree and ran for the hollow. I can't tell how it was, but it
seemed to me that I didn't gain a foot of ground — it was just
as if the whole wood went with me. Then I thought He had
me his. The ground began to bend and the trees to move. At
last I was nigh blind. I struck against one tree and another
till I fell to the ground. How long I lay there I can't tell;
but when I came to I was on the sand, the sun blazing hot upon
me and my skin scorched up. I was so stiff and ached so, I
could hardly stand upright. I didn't feel or think anything
after this; and hardly knew where I was till somebody came
and touched me, and asked me whether I was walking in my
sleep; and I looked up and found myself close home.
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
4295
<(The boys began to gather round me as if I were something
strange; and when I looked at them they would move back from
me. ( What have you been doing, Abel ? * one of them asked me
at last. ( No good, I warrant you, * answered another, who stood
back of me. And when I turned around to speak to him he
drew behind the others, as if afraid I should harm him; — and I
was too weak and frightened to hurt a fly. ( See his hands ;
they are stained all over.* — (And there's a crow's egg, as I'm
alive!* said another. — (And the crow is the Devil's bird, Tom,
isn't it ? * asked a little boy. ( O Abel, you've been to that wood
and made yourself over to Him.* — They moved off one after
another, every now and then turning round and looking at me
as if I were cursed. After this they would not speak to me nor
come nigh me. I heard people talking, and saw them going
about, but not one of them all could I speak to, or get to come
near me; it was dreadful, being so alone! I met a boy that
used to be with me all day long; and I begged him not to go
off from me so, and to stop, if it were only for a moment.
( You played with me once,* said I; (and won't you do so much
as look at me, or ask me how I am, when I am so weak and ill
too ? * He began to hang back a little, and I thought from his
face that he pitied me. I could have cried for joy, and was
going up to him, but he turned away. I called out after him,
telling him that I would not so much as touch him with my
finger, or come any nearer to him, if he would only stop and
speak one word to me; but he went away shaking his head, and
muttering something, I hardly knew what, — how that I did not
belong to them, but was the Evil One's now. I sat down on a
stone and cried, and wished that I was dead; for I couldn't help
it, though it was wicked in me to do so. **
<(And is there no one,** asked Paul, (<who will notice you or
speak to you ? Do you live so alone now ? ** It made his heart
ache to look down upon the pining, forlorn creature before him.
(< Not a soul, ** whined out the boy. (< My grandmother is dead
now, and only the gentlefolks give me anything; for they don't
seem afraid of me, though they look as if they didn't like me,
and wanted me gone. All I can, I get to eat in the woods, and
I beg out of the village. But I dare not go far, because I don't
know when He will want me. But I am not alone, He's with
me day and night. As I go along the street in the daytime, I
feel Him near me, though I can't see Him; and it is as if He
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
were speaking to me; and yet I don't hear any words. He
makes me follow Him to that wood; and I have to sit the whole
day where you found me, and I dare not complain nor move, till
I feel He will let me go. I've looked at the pines, sometimes,
till I have seen spirits moving all through them. Oh, 'tis an
awful place; they breathe cold upon me when He makes me go
there. »
<( Poor wretch ! * said Paul.
(< I'm weak and hungry, and yet when I try to eat, something
chokes me; I don't love what I eat."
<( Come along with me, and you shall have something to
nourish and warm you; for you are pale and shiver, and look
cold here in the very sun.8
The boy looked up at Paul, and the tears rolled down his
cheeks at hearing one speak so kindly to him. He got up and
followed meekly after to the house.
Paul, seeing a servant in the yard, ordered the boy some-
thing to eat. The man cast his eye upon Abel, and then looked
at Paul as if he had not understood him. w I spoke distinctly
enough," said Paul; <(and don't you see that the boy is nigh
starved ? M The man gave a mysterious look at both of them,
and with a shake of his head as he turned away, went to do as
he was bid.
<( What means the fellow ? w said Paul to himself as he entered
the house. w Does he take me to be bound to Satan too ? Yet
there may be bonds upon the soul, though we know it not; and
evil spirits at work within us, of which we little dream. And
are there no beings but those seen of mortal eye or felt by
mortal touch ? Are there not passing in and around this piece
of moving mold, in which the spirit is pent up, those whom it
hears not ? those whom it has no finer sense whereby to com-
mune with ? Are all the instant joys that come and go, we
know not whence nor whither, but creations of the mind ? Or
are they not rather bright and heavenly messengers, whom when
this spirit is set free it will see in all their beauty ? whose
sweet sounds it will then drink in ? Yes, it is, it is so ; and all
around us is populous with beings, now invisible to us as this
circling air. M
The moon was down and the sky overcast when they began
to wind among the rocks. Though Paul's walks had lain of
late in this direction, he was not enough acquainted with the
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
4297
passage to find his way through it in the dark. Abel, who had
traversed it often in the night, alone and in terror, now took
heart at having some one with him at such an hour, and of-
fered unhesitatingly to lead. <( The boy winds round those
crags with the speed and ease of a stream, w said Paul; <(not so
fast, Abel.*
"Take hold of the root which shoots out over your head, sir,
for 'tis ticklish work getting along just here. Do you feel it,
sir ? »
<( I have hold, }) said Paul.
(< Let yourself gently down by it, sir. You needn't be a bit
afraid, for 'twill not give way; man couldn't have fastened it
stronger. w
This was the first time Abel had felt his power, or had been
of consequence to any one, since- the boys had turned him out
from their games; and it gave him a momentary activity, and
an unsettled sort of spirit, which he had never known since
then. He had been shunned and abhorred; and he believed him-
self the victim of some demoniac power. To have another in
this fearful bondage with him, as Paul had intimated, was a
relief from his dreadful solitariness in his terrors and sufferings.
(< And he said that it was I who was to work a curse on him, *
muttered Abel. <( It cannot be, surely, that such a thing as I
am can harm a man like him ! w And though Abel remembered
Paul's kindness, and that this was to seal his own doom too, yet
it stirred the spirit of pride within him.
<( What are you muttering to yourself, there in the dark, w
demanded Paul; <(or whom talk you with, you withered wretch ? w
Abel shook in every joint at the sound of Paul's harsh voice.
<( It is so dreadfully still here," said Abel; <( I hear nothing
but your steps behind me, and they make me start. w This was
true; for notwithstanding his touch of instant pride, his terrors
and his fear of Paul were as great as ever.
(< Speak louder then," said Paul, (<or hold your peace. I like
not your muttering; it bodes no good."
<( It may bring a curse to you, worse than that on me, if a
worse can be," said Abel to himself; (< but who can help it ? "
Day broke before they cleared the ridge; a drizzling rain
came on ; and the wind, beginning to rise, drove through the
crevices in the rocks with sharp whistling sounds which seemed
to come from malignant spirits of the air.
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
They had scarcely entered the wood when the storm became
furious; and the trees, swaying and beating with their branches
against one another, seemed possessed of a supernatural madness,
and engaged in wild conflict, as if there were life and passion in
them; and their broken, decayed arms groaned like things in
torment. The terror of these sights and sounds was too much
for poor Abel ; it nearly crazed him ; and he set up a shriek that
for a moment drowned the noise of the storm. It startled Paul;
and when he looked at him, the boy's face was of a ghostly
whiteness. The rain had drenched him to the skin; his clothes
clung to his lean body, that shook as if it would come apart; his
eyes flew wildly, and his teeth chattered against each other. The
fears and torture of his mind gave something unearthly to his
look, that made Paul start back. <(Abel — boy — fiend — speak!
What has seized you ? ° .
<(They told me so,0 cried Abel — <( I've done it — I led the
way for you — they're coming, they're coming — we're lost!0
(< Peace, fool, ° said Paul, trying to shake off the power he felt
Abel gaining over him, <( and find us a shelter if you can.0
<( There's only the hut,0 said Abel, <( and I wouldn't go into
that if it rained fire.M
« And why not ? °
" I once felt that it was for me to go, and I went so near
as to see in at the door. And I saw something in the hut — it
was not a man, for it flitted by the opening just like a shadow;
and I heard two muttering something to one another; it wasn't
like other sounds, for as soon as I heard it, it made me stop
my ears. I couldn't stay any longer, and I ran till I cleared
the wood. Oh! 'tis His biding-place, when He comes to the
wood. °
(< And is it of His own building ? w asked Paul, sarcastically.
"No,0 answered Abel; "'twas built by the two wood-cutters;
and one of them came to a bloody end, and they say the other
died the same night, foaming at the mouth like one possessed.
There it is,0 said he, almost breathless, as he crouched down and
pointed at the hut under the trees. " Do not go, sir, ° he said,
catching hold of the skirts of Paul's coat, — <( I've never dared go
nigher since.0 — <( Let loose, boy,0 cried Paul, striking Abel's
hand from his coat, "I'll not be fooled with.0 Abel, alarmed at
being left alone, crawled after Paul as far as he dared go; then
taking hold of him once more, made a supplicating motion to
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
4299
him to stop; he was afraid to speak. Paul pushed on without
regarding him.
The hut stood on the edge of a sand-bank that was kept
up by a large pine, whose roots and fibres, lying partly bare,
looked like some giant spider that had half buried himself in
the sand. On the right of the hut was a patch of broken
ground, in which were still standing a few straggling dried
stalks of Indian corn; and from two dead trees hung knotted
pieces of broken line, which had formerly served for a clothes-
line. The hut was built of half-trimmed trunks of trees laid on
each other, crossing at the four corners and running out at
unequal lengths, the chinks partly filled in with sods and moss.
The door, which lay on the floor, was of twisted boughs; and
the roof, of the same, was caved in, and but partly kept out
the sun and rain.
As Paul drew near the entrance he stopped, though the
wind just then came in a heavy gust, and the rain fell like a
flood. It was not a dread of what he might see within; but
it seemed to him that there was a spell round him, drawing
him nearer and nearer to its centre; and he felt the hand of
some invisible power upon him. As he stepped into the hut
a chill ran over him, and his eyes shut involuntarily. Abel
watched him eagerly; and as he saw him enter, tossed his arms
wildly shouting, "Gone, gone! They'll have me too — they're
coming, they're coming ! w and threw himself on his face to
the ground.
Driven from home by his maddening passions, a perverse
delight in self-torture had taken possession of Paul; and his
mind so hungered for more intense excitement, that it craved
to prove true all which its jealousy and superstition had
imaged. He had walked on, lost in this fearful riot, but with
no particular object in view, and taking only a kind of crazed
joy in his bewildered state. Esther's love for him, which he
at times thought past doubt feigned, the darkness of the night,
and then the driving storm with its confused motions and
sounds, made an uproar of the mind which drove out all
settled purpose or thought.
The stillness of the place into which he had now entered,
where was heard nothing but the slow, regular dripping of the
rain from the broken roof upon the hard-trod floor; the lowered
and distant sound of the storm without; the sudden change
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
from the whirl and swaying of the trees to the steady walls
of the building, put a sudden stop to the violent working of
his brain, and he gradually fell into a stupor.
When Abel began to recover, he could scarcely raise himself
from the ground. He looked round, but could see nothing of
Paul. <( They have bound us together, w said he; <(and something
is drawing me toward him. There is no help for me; I must
go whither he goes." As he was drawn nearer and nearer to
the hut he seemed to struggle and hang back, as if pushed on
against his will. At last he reached the doorway; and clinging
to its side with a desperate hold, as if not to be forced in, put
his head forward a little, casting a hasty glance into the building.
<( There he is, and alive ! w breathed out Abel.
Paul's stupor was now beginning to leave him; his recollec-
tion was returning; and what had passed came back slowly and
at intervals. There was something he had said to Esther before
leaving home — he could not tell what; then his gazing after her
as she drove from the house; then something of Abel, — and he
sprang from the ground as if he felt the boy's touch again about
his knees; then the ball-room, and a multitude of voices, and all
talking of his wife. Suddenly she appeared darting by him; and
Frank was there. Then came his agony and tortures again; all
returned upon him as in the confusion of some horrible trance.
Then the hut seemed to enlarge and the walls to rock; and
shadows of those he knew, and of terrible beings he had never
seen before, were flitting round him and mocking at him. His
own substantial form seemed to him undergoing a change, and
taking the shape and substance of the accursed ones at which he
looked. As he felt the change going on he tried to utter a cry,
but he could not make a sound nor move a limb. The ground
under him rocked and pitched; it grew darker and darker, till
everything was visionary; and he thought himself surrounded by
spirits, and in the mansions of the damned. Something like a
deep black cloud began to gather gradually round him. The
gigantic structure, with its tall terrific arches, turned slowly into
darkness, and the spirits within disappeared one after another,
till as the ends of the cloud met and closed, he saw the last of
them looking at him with an infernal laugh in his undefined
visage.
Abel continued watching him in speechless agony. Paul's
consciousness was now leaving him; his head began to swim —
RICHARD HENRY DANA, SENIOR
he reeled; and as his hand swept down the side of the hut,
while trying to save himself, it struck against a rusty knife that
had been left sticking loosely between the logs. w Let go, let
go!" shrieked Abel; "there's blood on 't — 'tis cursed, 'tis cursed."
As Paul swung round with the knife in his hand, Abel sprang
from the door with a shrill cry, and Paul sank on the floor,
muttering to himself, <( What said They ? "
When he began to come to himself a little, he was still sitting
on the ground, his back against the wall. His senses were yet
confused. He thought he saw his wife near him, and a bloody
knife by his side. After sitting a little longer his mind grad-
ually grew clearer, and at last he felt for the first time that his
hand held something. As his eye fell on it and he saw dis-
tinctly what it was, he leaped upright with a savage yell and
dashed the knife from him as if it had been an asp stinging
him. He stood with his bloodshot eyes fastened on it, his hands
spread, and his body shrunk up with horror. <( Forged in hell !
and for me, for me ! " he screamed, as he sprang forward and
seized it with a convulsive grasp. <( Damned pledge of the
league that binds us ! " he cried, holding it up and glaring
wildly on it. <( And yet a voice did warn me — of what, I know
not. Which of ye put it in this hand ? Speak — let me look on
you ? D'ye hear me, and will not answer ? Nay, nay, what
needs it ? This tells me, though it speaks not. I know your
promptings now," he said, folding his arms deliberately; "your
work must be done; and I am doomed to it."
4302
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
(1815-1882)
!HE literary fame of Richard Henry Dana the younger rests on
a single book, produced at the age of twenty-five. (Two
Years Before the Mast } stands unique in English literature :
it reports a man's actual experiences at sea, yet touches the facts
with a fine imagination. It is a bit of Dana's own life while on a
vacation away from college. The manner in which he got his
material was remarkable, but to the literature he came as by birth-
right, through his father, Richard Henry Dana the elder, then
a well-known poet, novelist, and essayist.
He was born in Cambridge in 1815, grow-
ing up in the intellectual atmosphere of
that university town, and in due course of
time entering Harvard College, where his
father and grandfather before him had been
trained in law and letters. An attack of
the measles during his third year at col-
lege left him with weakened eyes, and an
active outdoor life was prescribed as the
only remedy. From boyhood up he had
been passionately fond of the sea; small
wonder, then, that he now determined to
take a long sea voyage. Refusing a berth
offered him on a vessel bound for the East
Indies, he chose to go as common sailor before the mast, on a mer-
chantman starting on a two-years' trading voyage around Cape Horn
to California. At that time boys of good family from the New
England coast towns often took such trips. Dana indeed found a
companion in a former merchant's clerk of Boston. They left on
August 1 4th, 1834, doubled Cape Horn, spent many months in the
waters of the Pacific and on the coast of California, trading with the
natives and taking in cargoes of hides, and returned to Boston in
September, 1836. Young Dana, entirely cured of his weakness, re-
entered college, graduated the next year, and then went to study in
the law school of Harvard. During his cruise he had kept a journal,
which he now worked over into the narrative that made him famous,
and that bids fair to keep his name alive as long as boys, young or
old, delight in sea stories. It is really not a story at all, but
R. H. DANA, JR.
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR 4303
describes with much vivacity the whole history of a long trading voy-
age, the commonplace life of the sailor with its many hardships,
including the savage brutality of captains with no restraint on passion
or manners, and scant recreations; the sea in storm and calm, and the
California coast before the gold fever, when but few Europeans were
settled there, and hides were the chief export of a region whose
riches lay still secreted under the earth. The great charm of the
narrative lies in its simplicity and its frank statement of facts. Dana
apparently did not invent anything, but depicted real men, men lie
had intimately known for two years, calling them even by their own
names, and giving an unvarnished account of what they did and
said. He never hung back from work or shirked his duty, but
<( roughed itw to the very end. As a result of these experiences, this
book is the only one that gives any true idea of the sailor's life.
Sea stories generally depend for their interest on the inventive skill
of their authors; Dana knew how to hold the attention by a simple
statement of facts. The book has all the charm and spontaneity of a
keenly observant yet imaginative and cultivated mind, alive to all
the aspects of the outer world, and gifted with that fine literary
instinct which, knowing the value of words, expresses its thoughts
with precision. Seafaring men have commented on his exactness in
reproducing the sailor's phraseology. The book was published in
1840, translated into several languages, and adopted by the British
Admiralty for distribution in the Navy. Few sailors are without a
copy in their chest. <The Seaman's Friend,* which Dana published
in the following year, was inspired by his indignation at the abuses
he had witnessed in the merchant marine.
Dana did not follow up his first success, and his life henceforth
belongs to the history of the bar and politics of Massachusetts,
rather than to literature. The fame of his book brought to his law
office many admiralty cases. In 1 848 he was one of the founders of
the Free Soil party; later he became an active abolitionist, and took
a large part in the local politics of his State. For a year he
lectured on international law in Harvard college. He contributed
to the North American Review, and wrote besides on various legal
topics. His one other book on travel, <To Cuba and Back, a Vaca-
tion Voyage,* the fruit of a trip to that island in 1859, though well
written, never became popular. He retired from his profession in
1877, and spent the last years of his life in Paris and Italy. He
died in Rome, January 6th, 1882.
4304 RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
A DRY GALE
From <Two Years Before the Mast>
WE HAD been below but a short time before \ve had the
usual premonitions of a coming gale, — seas washing over
the whole forward part of the vessel, and her bows beat-
ing against them with a force and sound like the driving of
piles. The watch, too, seemed very busy trampling about decks
and singing out at the ropes. A sailor can tell by the sound
what sail is coming in; and in a short time we heard the top-
gallant-sails come in, one after another, and then the flying jib.
This seemed to ease her a good deal, and we were fast going
off to the land of Nod, when — bang, bang, bang on the scuttle,
and (< All hands, reef topsails, ahoy ! w started us out of our
berths, and it not being very cold weather, we had nothing
extra to put on, and were soon on deck. I shall never forget
the fineness of the sight. It was a clear and rather a chilly
night; the stars were twinkling with an intense brightness, and
as far as the eye could reach there was not a cloud to be seen.
The horizon met the sea in a defined line. A painter could not
have painted so clear a sky. There was not a speck upon it.
Yet it was blowing great guns from the northwest. When you
can see a cloud to windward, you feel that there is a place for
the wind to come from; but here it seemed to come from no-
where. No person could have told from the heavens, by their
eyesight alone, that it was not a still summer's night. One reef
after another we took in the topsails, and before we could get
them hoisted up we heard a sound like a short quick rattling of
thunder, and the jib was blown to atoms out of the bolt-rope.
We got the topsails set, and the fragments of the jib stowed
away, and the foretopmast staysail set in its place, when the
great mainsail gaped open, and the sail ripped from head to
foot. <( Lay up on that main yard and furl the sail, before it
blows to tatters ! w shouted the captain ; and in a moment we
were up, gathering the remains of it upon the yard. We got it
wrapped round the yard, and passed gaskets over it as snugly
as possible, and were just on deck again, when with another
loud rent, which was heard throughout the ship, the foretopsail,
which had been double-reefed, split in two athwartships, just
below the reef -band, from earing to earing. Here again it was —
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
43°5
down yard, haul out reef-tackles, and lay out upon the yard for
reefing. By hauling the reef-tackles chock-a-block we took the
strain from the other earings, and passing the close -reef earing,
and knotting the points carefully, we succeeded in setting the
sail, close reefed.
We had but just got the rigging coiled up, and were waiting
to hear <( Go below the watch ! w when the main royal worked
loose from the gaskets, and blew directly out to leeward, flap-
ping and shaking the mast like a wand. Here was a job for
somebody. The royal must come in or be cut adrift, or the mast
would be snapped short off. All the light hands in the starboard
watch were sent up one after another, but they could do nothing
with it. At length John, the tall Frenchman, the head of the
starboard watch (and a better sailor never stepped upon a deck),
sprang aloft, and by the help of his long arms and legs suc-
ceeded after a hard struggle, — the sail blowing over the yard-
arm to leeward, and the skysail adrift directly over his head, —
in smothering it and f rapping it with long pieces of sinnet. He
came very near being blown or shaken from the yard several
times, but he was a true sailor, every finger a fish-hook. Hav-
ing made the sail snug, he prepared to send the yard down,
which was a long and difficult job; for frequently he was obliged
to stop and hold on with all his might for several minutes, the
ship pitching so as to make it impossible to do anything else at
that height. The yard at length came down safe, and after it
the fore and mizzen royal yards were sent down. All hands
were then sent aloft, and for an hour or two we were hard at
work, making the booms well fast, unreeving the studding sail
and royal and skysail gear, getting rolling-ropes on the yard,
setting up the weather breast-backstays, and making other prep-
arations for a storm. It was a fine night for a gale, just cool
and bracing enough for quick work, without being cold, and as
bright as day. It was sport to have a gale in such weather as
this. Yet it blew like a hurricane. The wind seemed to come
with a spite, an edge to it, which threatened to scrape us off the
yards. The force of the wind was greater than I had ever felt
it before; but darkness, cold, and wet are the worst parts of a
storm to a sailor.
Having got on deck again, we looked round to see what time
of night it was, and whose watch. In a few minutes the man
at the wheel struck four bells, and we found that the other
vni — 270
4306 RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
watch was out and our own half out. Accordingly the starboard
watch went below, and left the ship to us for a couple of hours,
yet with orders to stand by for a call.
Hardly had they got below before away went the foretop-
mast staysail, blown to ribands. This was a small sail, which
we could manage in the watch, so that we were not obliged to
call up the other watch. We laid upon the bowsprit, where we
were under water half the time, and took in the fragments of
the sail; and as she must have some headsail on her, prepared
to bend another staysail. We got the new one out into the net-
tings; seized on the tack, sheets, and halyards, and the hanks;
manned the halyards, cut adrift the frapping-lines, and hoisted
away; but before it was half-way up the stay it was blown all
to pieces. When we belayed the halyards, there was nothing
left but the bolt-rope. Now large eyes began to show them-
selves in the foresail; and knowing that it must soon go, the
mate ordered us upon the yard to furl it. Being unwilling to
call up the watch, who had been on deck all night, he roused
out the carpenter, sailmaker, cook, and steward, and with their
help we manned the foreyard, and after nearly half an hour's
struggle, mastered the sail and got it well furled round the
yard. The force of the wind had never been greater than at
this moment. In going up the rigging it seemed absolutely to
pin us down to the shrouds; and on the yard there was no such
thing as turning a face to windward. Yet there was no driving
sleet and darkness and wet and cold as off Cape Horn; and
instead of stiff oilcloth suits, southwester caps, and thick boots,
we had on hats, round jackets, duck trousers, light shoes, and
everything light and easy. These things make a great differ-
ence to a sailor. When we got on deck the man at the wheel
struck eight bells (four o'clock in the morning), and (< All star-
bowlines, ahoy ! w brought the other watch up, but there was no
going below for us. The gale was now at its height, <( blowing
like scissors and thumb-screws w ; the captain was on deck; the
ship, which was light, rolling and pitching as though she would
shake the long sticks out of her, and the sails were gaping open
and splitting in every direction. The mizzen-topsail, which was
a comparatively new sail and close reefed, split from head to
foot in the bunt; the foretopsail went in one rent from clew to
earing, and was blowing to tatters; one of the chain bobstays
parted; the spritsailyard sprung in the slings, the martingale
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
had slued away off to leeward; and owing to the long dry
weather the lee rigging hung in large bights at every lurch.
One of the main-topgallant shrouds had parted; and to crown
all, the galley had got adrift and gone over to leeward, and the
anchor on the lee bow had worked loose and was thumping the
side. Here was work enough for all hands for half a day. Our
gang laid out on the mizzen-topsailyard, and after more than
half an hour's hard work furled the sail, though it bellied out
over our heads, and again, by a slat of the wind, blew in
under the yard with a fearful jerk and almost threw us off
from the foot-ropes.
Double gaskets were passed round the yards, rolling tackles
and other gear bowsed taut, and everything made as secure as it
could be. Coming down, we found the rest of the crew just
coming down the fore rigging, having furled the tattered top-
sail, or rather, swathed it round the yard, which looked like a
broken limb bandaged. There was no sail now on the ship but
the spanker and the close-reefed main-topsail, which still held
good. But this was too much after-sail, and order was given to
furl the spanker. The brails were hauled up, and all the light
hands in the starboard watch sent out on the gaff to pass the
gaskets; but they could do nothing with it. The second mate
swore at them for a parcel of (< sogers, w and sent up a couple of
the best men; but they could do no better, and the gaff was
lowered down. All hands were now employed in setting up the
lee rigging, fishing the spritsail yard, lashing the galley, and
getting tackles upon the martingale, to bowse it to windward.
Being in the larboard watch, my duty was forward, to assist in
setting up the martingale. Three of us were out on the martin-
gale guys and back-ropes for more than half an hour, carrying
out, hooking, and unhooking the tackles, several times buried in
the seas, until the mate ordered us in from fear of our being
washed off. The anchors were then to be taken up on the rail,
which kept all hands on the forecastle for an hour, though every
now and then the seas broke over it, washing the rigging off to
leeward, filling the lee scuppers breast-high, and washing chock
aft to the taffrail.
Having got everything secure again-, we were promising our-
selves some breakfast, for it was now nearly nine o'clock in the
forenoon, when the main-topsail showed evident signs of giving
way. Some sail must be kept on the ship, and the captain
4308 RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
ordered the fore and main spencer gaffs to be lowered down,
and the two spencers (which were storm sails, brand-new, small,
and made of the strongest canvas) to be got up and bent; leav-
ing the main-topsail to blow away, with a blessing on it, if it
would only last until we could set the spencers. These we bent
on very carefully, with strong robands and seizings, and making
tackles fast to the clews, bowsed them down to the water-ways.
By this time the main-topsail was among the things that have
been, and we went aloft to stow away the remnant of the last
sail of all those which were on the ship twenty-four hours before.
The spencers were now the only whole sails on the ship, and
being strong and small, and near the deck, presenting but little
surface to the wind above the rail, promised to hold out well.
Hove-to under these, and eased by having no sail above the
tops, the ship rose and fell, and drifted off to leeward like a line-
of-battle ship.
It was now eleven o'clock, and the watch was sent below to
get breakfast, and at eight bells (noon), as everything was snug,
although the gale had not in the least abated, the watch was
set and the other watch and idlers sent below. For three days
and three nights the gale continued with unabated fury, and
with singular regularity. There were no lulls, and very little
variation in its fierceness. Our ship, being light, rolled so as
almost to send the fore yard-arm under water, and drifted off
bodily to leeward. All this time there was not a cloud to be
seen in the sky, day or night; no, not so large as a man's hand.
Every morning the sun rose cloudless from the sea, and set
again at night in the sea in a flood of light. The stars, too,
came out of the blue one after another, night after night, unob-
scured, and twinkled as clear as on a still frosty night at home,
until the day came upon them. All this time the sea was roll-
ing in immense surges, white with foam, as far as the eye could
reach, on every side; for we were now leagues and leagues
from shore.
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
EVERY-DAY SEA LIFE
From <Two Years Before the Mast>
THE sole object was to make the time pass on. Any change
was sought for which would break the monotony of the
time; and even the two-hours' trick at the wheel, which
came round to us in turn, once in every other watch, was looked
upon as a relief. The never-failing resource of long yarns,
which eke out many a watch, seemed to have failed us now; for
we had been so long together that we had heard each other's
stories told over and over again till we had them by heart; each
one knew the whole history of each of the others, and we were
fairly and literally talked out. Singing and joking we were in
no humor for; and in fact any sound of mirth or laughter would
have struck strangely upon our ears, and would not have been
tolerated any more than whistling or a wind instrument. The
last resort, that of speculating upon the future, seemed now to
fail us; for our discouraging situation, and the danger we were
really in (as we expected every day to find ourselves drifted
back among the ice) , (< clapped a stopper w upon all that. From
saying <( when we get home,'* we began insensibly to alter it (< if
we get home," and at last the subject was dropped by a tacit
consent.
In this state of things a new light was struck out, and a
new field opened, by a change in the watch. One of our watch
was laid up for two or three days by a bad hand (for in cold
weather the least cut or bruise ripens into a sore), and his place
was supplied by the carpenter. This was a windfall, and there
was a contest who should have the carpenter to walk with him.
As <( Chips }> was a man of some little education, and he and I
had had a good deal of intercourse with each other, he fell in
with me in my walk. He was a Finn, but spoke English well,
and gave me long accounts of his country, — the customs, the
trade, the towns, what little he knew of the government (I found
he was no friend of Russia), his voyages, his first arrival in
America, his marriage and courtship; he had married a country-
woman of his, a dressmaker, whom he met with in Boston. I
had very little to tell him of my quiet sedentary life at home;
and in spite of our best efforts, which had protracted these yarns
through five or six watches, we fairly talked each other out, and
4310 RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
I turned him over to another man in the watch and put myself
upon my own resources.
I commenced a deliberate system of time-killing, which united
some profit with a cheering-up of the heavy hours. As soon as
I came on deck, and took my place and regular walk, I began
with repeating over to myself in regular order a string of mat-
ters which I had in my memory, — the multiplication table and
the table of weights and measures; the Kanaka numerals; then
the States of the Union, with their capitals; the counties of
England, with their shire towns, and the kings of England in
their order, and other things. This carried me through my
facts, and being repeated deliberately, with long intervals, often
eked out the first two bells. Then came the Ten Command-
ments, the thirty-ninth chapter of Job, and a few other passages
from Scripture. The next in the order, which I seldom varied
from, came Cowper's Castaway,* which was a great favorite
with me; its solemn measure and gloomy character, as well as
the incident it was founded upon, making it well suited to a
lonely watch at sea. Then his * Lines to Mary, * his address to the
Jackdaw, and a short extract from ( Table Talk } (I abounded in
Cowper, for I happened to have a volume of his poems in my
chest); ( Ille et nefasto * from Horace, and Goethe's ( Erl-Konig.'
After I had got through these, I allowed myself a more general
range among everything that I could remember, both in prose
and verse. In this way, with an occasional break by relieving
the wheel, heaving the log, and going to the scuttle-butt for a
drink of water, the longest watch was passed away; and I was
so regular in my silent recitations that if there was no inter-
ruption by ship's duty I could tell very nearly the number of
bells by my progress.
Our watches below were no more varied than the watch on
deck. All washing, sewing, and reading was given up, and we did
nothing but eat, sleep, and stand our watch, leading what might
be called a Cape Horn life. The forecastle was too uncomfort-
able to sit up in; and whenever we were below, we were in our
berths. To prevent the rain and the sea-water which broke over
the bows from washing down, we were obliged to keep the scut-
tle closed, so that the forecastle was nearly air-tight. In this little
wet leaky hole we were all quartered, in an atmosphere so bad
that our lamp, which swung in the middle from the beams,
sometimes actually burned blue, with a large circle of foul air
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR 43 IX
about it. Still I was never in better health than after three
weeks of this life. I gained a great deal of flesh, and we all ate
like horses. At every watch when we came below, before turn-
ing in, the bread barge and beef kid were overhauled. Each
man drank his quart of hot tea night and morning, and glad
enough we were to get it; for no nectar and ambrosia were
sweeter to the lazy immortals than was a pot of hot tea, a hard
biscuit, and a slice of cold salt beef to us after a watch on deck.
To be sure, we were mere animals, and had this life lasted a
year instead of a month, we should have been little better than
the ropes in the ship. Not a razor, nor a brush, nor a drop of
water, except the rain and the spray, had come near us all the
time: for we were on an allowance of fresh water — and who
would strip and wash himself in salt water on deck, in the snow
and ice, with the thermometer at zero ?
A START; AND PARTING COMPANY
From < Two Years before the Mast >
THE California had finished discharging her cargo, and was to
get under way at the same time with us. Having washed
down decks and got breakfast, the two vessels lay side by
side in complete readiness for sea, our ensigns hanging from the
peaks and our tall spars reflected from the glassy surface of the
river, which since sunrise had been unbroken by a ripple. At
length a few whiffs came across the water, and by eleven o'clock
the regular northwest wind set steadily in. There was no need
of calling all hands, for we had all been hanging about the fore-
castle the whole forenoon, and were ready for a start upon the
first sign of a breeze. Often we turned our eyes aft upon the
captain, who was walking the deck, with every now and then a
look to windward. He made a sign to the mate, who came for-
ward, took his station deliberately between the knightheads, cast
a glance aloft, and called out, <(A11 hands lay aloft and loose the
sails ! » We were half in the rigging before the order came, and
never since we left Boston were the gaskets off the yards and
the rigging overhauled in a shorter time. <(A11 ready forward,
sir!" «A11 ready the main!" "Crossjack yards all ready, sir!"
.., j 2 RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
(< Lay down, all hands but one on each yard!" The yard-arm
and bunt gaskets were cast off; and each sail hung by the jig-
ger, with one man standing by the tie to let it go. At the same
moment that we sprang aloft a dozen hands sprang into the
rigging of the California, and in an instant were all over her
yards; and her sails too were ready to be dropped at the word.
In the mean time our bow gun had been loaded and run out,
and its discharge was to be the signal for dropping the sails. A
cloud of smoke came out of our bows; the echoes of the gun
rattled our farewell among the hills of California, and the two
ships were covered from head to foot with their white canvas.
For a few minutes all was uproar and apparent confusion; men.
jumping about like monkeys in the rigging; ropes and blocks
flying, orders given and answered amid the confused noises of
men singing out at the ropes. The topsails came to the mast-
heads with <( Cheerly, men ! w and in a few minutes every sail
was set, for the wind was light. The head sails were backed,
the windlass came round <( slip — slap " to the cry of the sailors ;
— (< Hove short, sir, M said the mate ; — (< Up with him ! w — (< Ay,
ay, sir. w A few hearty and long heaves, and the anchor showed
its head. <( Hook cat ! w The fall was stretched along the decks ;
all hands laid hold ; — <( Hurrah, for the last time, w said the
mate; and the anchor came to the cathead to the tune of
*Time for us to go,* with a rollicking chorus. Everything
was done quick, as though it was for the last time. The head
yards were filled away, and our ship began to move through
the water on her homeward-bound course.
The California had got under way at the same moment,
and we sailed down the narrow bay abreast, and were just off
the mouth, and, gradually drawing ahead of her, were on the
point of giving her three parting cheers, when suddenly we
found ourselves stopped short, and the California ranging fast
ahead of us. A bar stretches across the mouth of the harbor,
with water enough to float common vessels; but being low in
the water, and having kept well to leeward, as we were
bound to the southward, we had stuck fast, while the Cali-
fornia, being light, had floated over.
We kept all sail on, in the hope of forcing over; but failing
in this, we hove back into the channel. This was something
of a damper to us, and the captain looked not a little mortified
and vexed. "This is the same place where the Rosa got ashore,
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
sir, w observed our red-headed second mate, most mal-apropos.
A malediction on the Rosa, and him too, was all the answer
he got, and he slunk off to leeward. In a few minutes the
force of the wind and the rising of the tide backed us into the
stream, and we were on our way to our old anchoring place,
the tide setting swiftly up, and the ship barely manageable in
the light breeze. We came-to in our old berth opposite the
hide-house, whose inmates were not a little surprised to see us
return. We felt as though we were tied to California; and
some of the crew swore that they never should get clear of the
<( bloody w coast.
In about half an hour, which was near high water, the
order was given to man the windlass, and again the anchor
was catted; but there was no song, and not a word was said
about the last time. The California had come back on finding
that we had returned, and was hove-to, waiting for us, off the
point. This time we passed the bar safely, and were soon up
with the California, who filled away, and kept us company.
She seemed desirous of a trial of speed, and our captain
accepted the challenge, although we were loaded down to the
bolts of our chain-plates, as deep as a sand-barge, and bound
so taut with our cargo that we were no more fit for a race
than a man in fetters; while our antagonist was in her best
trim. Being clear of the point, the breeze became stiff, and
the royal-masts bent under our sails, but we would not
take them in until we saw three boys spring aloft into the
rigging of the California; when they were all furled at once,
but with orders to our boys to stay aloft at the topgallant
mastheads and loose them again at the word. It was my duty
to furl the fore-royal; and, while standing by to loose it again,
I had a fine view of the scene. From where I stood, the
two vessels seemed nothing but spars and sails, while their
narrow decks, far below, slanting over by the force of the
wind aloft, appeared hardly capable of supporting the great
fabrics raised upon them. The California was to windward of
us, and had every advantage; yet, while the breeze was stiff,
we held our own. As soon as it began to slacken, she ranged
a little ahead, and the order was given to loose the royals.
In an instant the gaskets were off and the bunt dropped.
<( Sheet home the fore royal ! w (< Weather sheets home ! }) — (< Lee
sheets home!" — "Hoist away, sir!* is bawled from aloft.
RICHARD HENRY DANA, JUNIOR
(< Overhaul your clew-lines ! w shouts the mate. <(Ay, ay, sir!
all clear ! w (< Taut leech ! belay ! Well the lee brace ; haul taut
to windward, w — and the royals were set. These brought us
up again; but the wind continuing light, the California set
hers, and it was soon evident that she was walking away from
us. Our captain then hailed and said that he should keep off
to his course; adding, <(She isn't the Alert now. If I had
her in your trim she would have been out of sight by this
time." This was good-naturedly answered from the California,
and she braced sharp up, and stood close upon the wind up
the coast; while we squared away our yards, and stood before
the wind to the south-southwest. The California's crew
manned her weather rigging, waved their hats in the air, and
gave us three hearty cheers, which we answered as heartily,
and the customary single cheer came back to us from over
the water. She stood on her way, doomed to eighteen months'
or two years' hard service upon that hated coast; while we
were making our way home, to which every hour and every
mile was bringing us nearer.
DANTE
(1265-1321)
BY CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
I
ACQUIRE a love for the best poetry, and a just understand-
ing of it, is the chief end of the study of literature; for it
is by means of poetry that the imagination is quickened,
nurtured, and invigorated, and it is only through the exercise of his
imagination that man can live a life that is in a true sense worth
living. For it is the imagination which lifts him from the petty,
transient, and physical interests that engross the greater part of his
time and thoughts in self-regarding pursuits, to the large, permanent,
and spiritual interests that ennoble his nature, and transform him
from a solitary individual into a member of the brotherhood of the
human race.
In the poet the imagination works more powerfully and consist-
ently than in other men, and thus qualifies him to become the
teacher and inspirer of his fellows. He sees men, by its means,
more clearly than they see themselves; he discloses them to them-
selves, and reveals to them their own dim ideals. He becomes the
interpreter of his age to itself; and not merely of his own age is he
the interpreter, but of man to man in all ages. For change as the
world may in outward aspect, with the rise and fall of empires, —
change as men may, from generation to generation, in knowledge,
belief, and manners, — human nature remains unalterable in its ele-
ments, unchanged from age to age; and it is human nature, under its
various guises, with which the great poets deal.
The Iliad and the Odyssey do not become antiquated to us. The
characters of Shakespeare are perpetually modern. Homer, Dante,
Shakespeare, stand alone in the closeness of their relation to nature.
Each after his own manner gives us a view of life, as seen by the
poetic imagination, such as no other poet has given to us. Homer,
first of all poets, shows us individual personages sharply defined, but
in the early stages of intellectual and moral development, the first
representatives of the race at its conscious entrance upon the path of
progress, with simple motives, simple theories of existence, simple
and limited experience. He is plain and direct in the presentation
43 1 6
DANTE
of life, and in the substance no less than in the expression of his
thought.
In Shakespeare's work the individual man is no less sharply
defined, no less true to nature, but the long procession of his per-
sonages is wholly different in effect from that of the Iliad and the
Odyssey. They have lost the simplicity of the older race; they are
the products of a longer and more varied experience; they have
become more complex. And Shakespeare is plain and direct neither
in the substance of his thought nor in the expression of it. The
world has grown older, and in the evolution of his nature man has
become conscious of the irreconcilable paradoxes of life, and more or
less aware that while he is infinite in faculty, he is also the quint-
essence of dust. But there is one essential characteristic in which
Shakespeare and Homer resemble each other as poets, — that they
both show to us the scene of life without the interference of their
own personality. Each simply holds the mirror up to nature, and
lets us see the reflection, without making comment on the show. If
there be a lesson in it we must learn it for ourselves.
Dante comes between the two, and differs more widely from each
of them than they from one another. They are primarily poets.
He is primarily a moralist who is also a poet. Of Homer the man,
and of Shakespeare the man, we know, and need to know, nothing;
it is only with them as poets that we are concerned. But it is need-
ful to know Dante as man, in order fully to appreciate him as poet.
He gives us his world not as reflection from an unconscious and
indifferent mirror, but as from a mirror that shapes and orders its
reflections for a definite end beyond that of art, and extraneous to it.
And in this lies the secret of Dante's hold upon so many and so
various minds. He is the chief poet of man as a moral being.
To understand aright the work of any great poet we must know
the conditions of his times; but this is not enough in the case of
Dante. We must know not only the conditions of the generation to
which he belonged, we must also know the specific conditions which
shaped him into the man he was, and differentiated him from his
fellows. How came he, endowed with a poetic imagination which
puts him in the same class with Homer and Shakespeare, not to be
content, like them, to give us a simple view of the phantasmagoria of
life, but eager to use the fleeting images as instruments by which to
enforce the lesson of righteousness, to set forth a theory of existence
and a scheme of the universe ?
The question cannot be answered without a consideration of the
change wrought in the life and thoughts of men in Europe by the
Christian doctrine as expounded and enforced by the Roman Church,
and of the simultaneous changes in outward conditions resulting from
DANTE
4317
the destruction of the ancient civilization, and the slow evolution of
the modern world as it rose from the ruins of the old. The period
which immediately preceded and followed the fall of the Roman
Empire was too disorderly, confused, and broken for men during its
course to be conscious of the directions in which they were treading.
Century after century passed without settled institutions, without
orderly language, without literature, without art. But institutions,
languages, literature and art were germinating, and before the end
of the eleventh century clear signs of a new civilization were mani-
fest in Western Europe. The nations, distinguished by differences of
race and history, were settling down within definite geographical
limits; the various languages were shaping themselves for the uses
of intercourse and of literature; institutions accommodated to actual
needs were growing strong; here and there the social order was
becoming comparatively tranquil and secure. Progress once begun
became rapid, and the twelfth century is one of the most splendid
periods of the intellectual life of man expressing itself in an infinite
variety of noble and attractive forms. These new conditions were
most strongly marked in France : in Provence at the South, and in
and around the lie de France at the North ; and from both these
regions a quickening influence diffused itself eastward into Italy.
The conditions of Italy throughout the Dark and Middle Ages
were widely different from those of other parts of Europe. Through
all the ruin and confusion of these centuries a tradition of ancient
culture and ancient power was handed down from generation to gen-
eration, strongly affecting the imagination of the Italian people,
whether recent invaders or descendants of the old population. Italy
had never had a national unity and life, and the divisions of her dif-
ferent regions remained as wide in the later as in the earlier times;
but there was one sentiment which bound all her various and con-
flicting elements in a common bond, which touched every Italian
heart and roused every Italian imagination, — the sentiment of the
imperial grandeur and authority of Rome. Shrunken, feeble, fallen
as the city was, the thought of what she had once been still occupied
the fancy of the Italian people, determined their conceptions of the
government of the world, and quickened within them a glow of patri-
otic pride. Her laws were still the main fount of whatsoever law
existed for the maintenance of public and private right; the imperial
dignity, however interrupted in transmission, however often assumed
by foreign and barbarian conquerors, was still, to the imagination,
supreme above all other earthly titles; the story of Roman deeds
was known of all men; the legends of Roman heroes were the famil-
iar tales of infancy and age. Cities that had risen since Rome fell
claimed, with pardonable falsehood, to have had their origin from her,
DANTE
and their rulers adopted the designations of her consuls and her sen-
ators. The fragments of her literature that had survived the destruc-
tion of her culture were the models for the rude writers of ignorant
centuries, and her language formed the basis for the new language
which was gradually shaping itself in accordance with the slowly
growing needs of expression. The traces of her material dominion,
the ruins of her wide arch of empire, were still to be found from the
far West to the farther East, and were but the types and emblems
of her moral dominion in the law, the language, the customs, the
traditions of the different lands. Nothing in the whole course of
profane history has so affected the imaginations of men, or so influ-
enced their destinies, as the achievements and authority of Rome.
The Roman Church inherited, together with the city, the tradition
of Roman dominion over the world. Ancient Rome largely shaped
modern Christianity, — by the transmission of the idea of the author-
ity which the Empire once exerted to the Church which grew up
upon its ruins. The tremendous drama of Roman history displayed
itself to the imagination from scene to scene, from act to act, with
completeness of poetic progress and climax, — first the growth, the
extension, the absoluteness of material supremacy, the heathen being
made the instruments of Divine power for preparing the world for
the revelation of the true God; then the tragedy of Christ's death
wrought by Roman hands, and the expiation of it in the fall of the
Roman imperial power; followed by the new era in which Rome
again was asserting herself as mistress of the world, but now with
spiritual instead of material supremacy, and with a dominion against
which the gates of hell itself should not prevail.
It was, indeed, not at once that this conception of the Church as
the inheritor of the rights of Rome to the obedience of mankind
took form. It grew slowly and against opposition. But at the end
of the eleventh century, through the genius of Pope Gregory VII.,
the ideas hitherto disputed, of the supreme authority of the Pope
within the Church and of the supremacy of the Church over the
State, were established as the accepted ecclesiastical theory, and
adopted as the basis of the definitely organized ecclesiastical system.
Little more than a hundred years later, at the beginning of the thir-
teenth century, Innocent III. enforced the claims of the Church with
a vigor and ability hardly less than that of his great predecessor,
maintaining openly that the Pope — Pontifex Maximus — was the
vicar of God upon earth.
This theory was the logical conclusion from a long series of his-
toric premises; and resting upon a firm foundation of dogma, it was
supported by the genuine belief, no less than by the worldly inter-
ests and ambitions, of those who profited by it. The ideal it
DANTE
43^9
presented was at once a simple and a noble conception, — narrow
indeed, for the ignorance of men was such that only narrow concep-
tions, in matters relating to the nature and destiny of man and the
order of the universe, were possible. But it was a theory that
offered an apparently sufficient solution of the mysteries of religion,
of the relation between God and man, between the visible creation
and the unseen world. It was a theory of a material rather than a
spiritual order: it reduced the things of the spirit into terms of the
things of the flesh. It was crude, it was easily comprehensible, it
was fitted to the mental conditions of the age.
The power which the Church claimed, and which to a large
degree it exercised over the imagination and over the conduct of the
Middle Ages, was the power which belonged to its head as the
earthly representative and vicegerent of God. No wonder that such
power was often abused, and that the corruption among the ministers
of the Church was wide-spread. Yet in spite of abuse, in spite of
corruption, the Church was the ark of civilization.
The religious — no less than the intellectual — life of Europe had
revived in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and had displayed its
fervor in the marvels of Crusades and of church-building, — external
modes of manifesting zeal for the glory of God, and ardor for per-
sonal salvation. But with the progress of intelligence the spirit
which had found its expression in these modes of service, now, in
the thirteenth century in Italy, fired the hearts of men with an even
more intense and far more vital flame, quickening within them
sympathies which had long lain dormant, and which now at last
burst into activity in efforts and sacrifices for the relief of misery,
and for the bringing of all men within the fold of Christian brother-
hood. St. Francis and St. Dominic, in founding their orders, and
in setting an example to their brethren, only gave measure and direc-
tion to a common impulse.
Yet such were the general hardness of heart and cruelty of tem-
per which had resulted from the centuries of violence, oppression,
and suffering, out of which Italy with the rest of Europe was slowly
emerging, that the strivings of religious emotion and the efforts of
humane sympathy were less powerful to bring about an improve-
ment in social order than influences which had their root in material
conditions. Chief among these was the increasing strength of the
civic communities, through the development of industry and of com-
merce. The people of the cities, united for the protection of their
common interests, were gaining a sense of power. The little people,
as they were called, — mechanics, tradesmen, and the like, — were
organizing themselves, and growing strong enough to compel the
great to submit to the restrictions of a more or less orderly and
4320 DANTE
peaceful life. In spite of the violent contentions of the great, in
spite of frequent civic uproar, of war with neighbors, of impassioned
party disputes, in spite of incessant interruptions of their tranquillity,
many of the cities of Italy were advancing in prosperity and wealth.
No one of them made more rapid and steady progress than Florence.
The history of Florence during the thirteenth century is a splendid
tale of civic energy and resolute selfS-confidence. The little city was
full of eager and vigorous life. Her story abounds in picturesque
incident. She had her experience of the turn of the wheel of
Fortune, being now at the summit of power in Tuscany, now in the
depths of defeat and humiliation.
The spiritual emotion, the improvement in the conditions of
society, the increase of wealth, the growth in power of the cities of
Italy, were naturally accompanied by a corresponding intellectual
development, and the thirteenth century became for Italy what the
twelfth had been for France, a period of splendid activity in the
expression of her new life. Every mode of expression in literature
and in the arts was sought and practiced, at first with feeble and
ignorant hands, but with steady gain of mastery. At the beginning
of the century the language was a mere spoken tongue, not yet
shaped for literary use. But the example of Provence was strongly
felt at the court of the Emperor Frederick II. in Sicily, and the first
half of the century was not ended before many poets were 'imitating
in the Italian tongue the poems of the troubadours. Form and sub-
stance were alike copied; there is scarcely a single original note; but
the practice was of service in giving suppleness to the language, in
forming it for nobler uses, and in opening the way for poetry which
should be Italian in sentiment as well as in words. At the north of
Italy the influence of the trouveres was felt in like manner. Every-
where the desire for expression was manifest. The spring had come,
the young birds had begun to twitter, but no full song was yet heard.
Love was the main theme of the poets, but it had few accents of
sincerity; the common tone was artificial, was unreal.
In the second half of the century new voices are heard, with
accents of genuine and natural feeling; the poets begin to treat the
old themes with more freshness, and to deal with religion, politics,
and morals, as well as with love. The language still possesses,
indeed, the quality of youth; it is still pliant, its forms have not
become stiffened by age, it is fit for larger use than has yet been
made of it, and lies ready and waiting, like a noble instrument, for
the hand of the master which shall draw from it its full harmonies
and reveal its latent power in the service he exacts from it.
But it was not in poetry alone that the life of Italy found expres-
sion. Before the invention of printing, — which gave to the literary
DANTE
4321
arts such an advantage as secured their pre-eminence, — architecture,
sculpture, and painting were hardly less important means for the ex-
pression of the ideals of the imagination and the creative energy of
man. The practice of them had never wholly ceased in Italy; but
her native artists had lost the traditions of technical skill; their work
was rude and childish. The conventional and lifeless forms of Byzan-
tine art in its decline were adopted by workmen who no longer felt
the impulse, and no longer possessed the capacity, of original design.
Venice and Pisa, early enriched by Eastern commerce, and with citi-
zens both instructed and inspired by knowledge of foreign lands, had
begun great works of building even in the eleventh century; but
these works had been designed, and mainly executed, by masters
from abroad. But now the awakened soul of Italy breathed new life
into all the arts in its efforts at self-expression. A splendid revival
began. The inspiring influence of France was felt in the arts of
construction and design as it had been felt in poetry. The magnifi-
cent display of the highest powers of the imagination and the intelli-
gence in France, the creation during the twelfth and early thirteenth
centuries of the unrivaled productions of Gothic art, stimulated and
quickened the growth of the native art of Italy. But the French
forms were seldom adopted for direct imitation, as the forms of Pro-
vengal poetry had been. The power of classic tradition was strong
enough to resist their attraction. The taste of Italy rejected the
marvels of Gothic design in favor of modes of expression inherited
from her own past, but vivified with fresh spirit, and adapted to her
new requirements. The inland cities, as they grew rich through
native industry and powerful through the organization of their citi-
zens, were stirred with rivalry to make themselves beautiful, and the
motives of religion no less than those of civic pride contributed to
their adornment. The Church was the object of interest common to
all. Piety, superstition, pride, emulation, all alike called for art in
which their spirit should be embodied. The imagination answered to
the call. The eyes of the artist were once more opened to see the
beauty of life, and his hand sought to reproduce it. The bonds
of tradition were broken. The Greek marble vase on the platform of
the Duomo at Pisa taught Niccola Pisano the right methods of sculp-
ture, and directed him to the source of his art in the study of
nature. His work was a new wonder and delight, and showed the
way along which many followed him. Painting took her lesson from
sculpture, and before the end of the century both arts had become
responsive to the demand of the time, and had entered upon that
course of triumph which was not to end till, three centuries later,
chisel and brush dropped from hands enfeebled in the general decline
of national vigor, and incapable of resistance to the tyrannous and
exclusive autocracy of the printed page,
vin — 271
4322
DANTE
But it was not only the new birth of sentiment and emotion
which quickened these arts : it was also the aroused curiosity of men
concerning themselves, their history, and the earth. They felt their
own ignorance. The vast region of the unknown, which encircled
with its immeasurable spaces the little tract of the known world,
appealed to their fancy and their spirit of enterprise, with its bound-
less promise and its innumerable allurements to adventure. Learn-
ing, long confined and starved in the cell of the monk, was coming
out into the open world, and was gathering fresh stores alike from
the past and the present. The treasures of the wisdom and knowl-
edge of the Greeks were eagerly sought, especially in translations
of Aristotle, — translations which, though imperfect indeed, and dis-
figured by numberless misinterpretations and mistakes, nevertheless
contained a body of instruction invaluable as a guide and stimulant
to the awakened intelligence. Encyclopedic compends of knowledge
put at the disposition of students all that was known or fancied in
the various fields of science. The division between knowledge and
belief was not sharply drawn, and the wonders of legend and of
fable were accepted with as ready a faith as the actual facts of
observation and of experience. Travelers for gain or for adventure,
and missionaries for the sake of religion, were venturing to lands
hitherto unvisited. The growth of knowledge, small as it was com-
pared with later increase, widened thought and deepened life. The
increase of thought strengthened the faculties of the mind. Man
becomes more truly man in proportion to what he knows, and one of
the most striking and characteristic features of this great century is
the advance of man through increase of knowledge out of childish-
ness towards maturity. The insoluble problems which had been
discussed with astonishing acuteness by the schoolmen of the preced-
ing generation were giving place to a philosophy of more immediate
application to the conduct and discipline of life. The ( Summa Theo-
logica* of St. Thomas Aquinas not only treated with incomparable
logic the vexed questions of scholastic philosophy, but brought all
the resources of a noble and well-trained intelligence and of a fine
moral sense to the study and determination of the order and govern-
ment of the universe, and of the nature and destiny of man.
The scope of learning remained, indeed, at the end of the cen-
tury, narrow in its range. The little tract of truth which men had
acquired lay encompassed by ignorance, like a scant garden-plot sur-
rounded by a high wall. But here and there the wall was broken
through, and paths were leading out into wider fields to be won for
culture, or into deserts wider still, in which the wanderers should
perish.
But as yet there was no comprehensive and philosophic grasp of
the new conditions in their total significance; no harmonizing of
DANTE
4323
their various elements into one consistent scheme of human life; no
criticism of the new life as a whole. For this task was required not
only acquaintance with the whole range of existing knowledge, by
which the conceptions of men in regard to themselves and the uni-
verse were determined, but also a profound view of the meaning of
life itself, and an imaginative insight into the nature of man. A
mere image of the drama of life as presented to the eye would not
suffice. The meaning of it would be lost in the confusion and multi-
plicity of the scene. The only possible explanation and reconcile-
ment of its aspects lay in the universal application to them of the
moral law, and in the exhibition of man as a spiritual and immortal
being for whom this world was but the first stage of existence. This
was the task undertaken and accomplished by Dante.
ii
Of the events in Dante's life few are precisely ascertained, but of
its general course enough is known, either from his own statements
or from external testimony, to show the essential relations between
his life and his work, and the influence of his experience upon his
convictions and character. Most of the biographies of him are un-
trustworthy, being largely built up upon a foundation of inferences
and suppositions, and often filled out with traditions and stories of
which the greater part are certainly false and few have a likelihood
of truth. The only strictly contemporary account of him is that
given by the excellent Chronicler of Florence, Giovanni Villani, a
man of weight and judgment, who in the ninth book of his Chron-
icle, under the year 1321, recording Dante's death, adds a brief nar-
rative of his life and works; because, as he says, c< on account of the
virtues and knowledge and worth of so great a citizen, it seems to
us to be fitting to give a perpetual memorial of him in this our
chronicle, although the noble works left by him in writing afford a
true testimonial to him, and honorable fame to our city. w <( Dante
was, w says Villani, (< an honorable and ancient citizen of Florence, of
the gate of San Piero, and our neighbor. w (< He was a great master
in almost every branch of knowledge, although he was a layman; he
was a supreme poet and philosopher, and a perfect rhetorician alike
in prose and verse, as well as a most noble orator in public speech,
supreme in rhyme, with the most polished and beautiful style that
had ever been in our language. . . . Because of his knowledge
he was somewhat presumptuous, disdainful, and haughty; and, as it
were after the manner of a philosopher, having little graciousness,
he knew not well to bear himself with common people (conversare
con laici}.y*
4324 DANTE
Dante was born in Florence, in May or June 1265. Of his family
little is positively known.* It was not among the nobles of the city,
but it had place among the well-to-do citizens who formed the body
of the State and the main support of the Guelf party. Of Dante's
early years, and the course of his education, nothing is known save
what he himself tells us in his various writings or what may be
inferred from them. Lionardo Bruni, eminent as an historian and as
a public man, who wrote a Life of Dante about a hundred years
after his death, cites a letter of which we have no other knowledge,
in which, if the letter be genuine, the poet says that he took part in
the battle of Campaldino, fought in June 1 289. The words are : — <( At
the battle of Campaldino, in which the Ghibelline party was almost
all slain and undone, I found myself not a child in arms, and I
experienced great fear, and finally the greatest joy, because of the
shifting fortunes of the fight. w It seems likely that Dante was pres-
ent, probably under arms, in the later part of the same summer, at
the surrender to the Florentines of the Pisan stronghold of Caprona,
where, he says (( Inferno,' xxi. 94-96), (< I saw the foot soldiers afraid,
who came out under compact from Caprona, seeing themselves among
so many enemies. w
Years passed before any other event in Dante's life is noted with
a certain date. An imperfect record preserved in the Florentine
archives mentions his taking part in a discussion in the so-called
Council of a Hundred Men, on the 5th of June, 1 296. This is of import-
ance as indicating that he had before this time become a member of
one of the twelve Arts, — enrollment in one of which was required for
the acquisition of the right to exercise political functions in the
State, — and also as indicating that he had a place in the .chief of
those councils by which public measures were discussed and decided.
The Art of which he was a member was that of the physicians and
druggists (medici e sfeziali), an Art whose dealings included commerce
in many of the products of the East.
Not far from this time, but whether before or after 1296 is uncer-
tain, he married. His wife was Gemma dei Donati. The Donati
were a powerful family among the grandi of the city, and played a
leading part in the stormy life of Florence. Of Gemma nothing is
known but her marriage.
Between 1297 and 1299, Dante, together with his brother Fran-
cesco, as appears from existing documentary evidence, were borrowers
of considerable sums of money; and the largest of the debts thus
* In the ( Paradise > (canto xv. ) he introduces his great -great -grandfather
Cacciaguida, who tells of himself that he followed the Emperor Conrad to
fight against the Mohammedans, was made a knight by him, and was slain in
the war.
DANTE
4325
incurred seem not to have been discharged till 1332, eleven years after
his death, when they were paid by his sons Jacopo and Pietro.
In May 1299 he was sent as envoy from Florence to the little, not
very distant, city of San Gemignano, to urge its community to take
part in a general council of the Guelf communes of Tuscany.
In the next year, 1300, he was elected one of the six priors of
Florence, to hold office from the isth of June to the isth of August.
The priors, together with the <( gonfalonier of justice" (who had com-
mand of the body of one thousand men who stood at their service),
formed the chief magistracy of the city. Florence had such jealousy
of its rulers that the priors held office but two months, so that in
the course of each year thirty-six of the citizens were elected to this
magistracy. The outgoing priors, associated with twelve of the lead-
ing citizens, two from each of the sestieri or wards of the city, chose
their successors. Neither continuity nor steady vigor of policy was
possible with an administration so shifting and of such varied com-
position, which by its very constitution was exposed at all times to
intrigue and to attack. It was no wonder that Florence lay open to
the reproach that her counsels were such that what she spun in
October did not reach to mid- November (( Purgatory, ) vi. 142-144).
His election to the priorate was the most important event in Dante's
public life. WA11 my ills and all my troubles, * he declared, (<had
occasion and beginning from my misfortunate election to the priorate,
of which, though I was not worthy in respect of wisdom, yet I was
not unworthy in fidelity and in age.w*
The year 1300 was disastrous not only for Dante but for Florence.
She was, at the end of the thirteenth century, by far the most flour-
ishing and powerful city of Tuscany, full of vitality and energy, and
beautiful as she was strong. She was not free from civil discord,
but the predominance of the Guelf party was so complete within her
walls that she suffered little from the strife between Guelf and
Ghibelline, which for almost a century had divided Italy into two
hostile camps. In the main the Guelf party was that of the common
people and the industrious classes, and in general it afforded support
to the Papacy as against the Empire, while it received, in return,
support from the popes. The Ghibellines, on the other hand, were
mainly of the noble class, and maintainers of the Empire. The
growth of the industry and commerce of Florence in the last half of
the century had resulted in the establishment of the popular power,
and in the suppression of the Ghibelline interest. But a bitter quar-
rel broke out in one of the great families in the neighboring Guelf
city of Pistoia, a quarrel which raged so furiously that Florence
* From the letter already referred to, cited by Lionardo Bruni.
4326
DANTE
feared that it would result in the gain of power by the Ghibel-
lines, and she adopted the fatal policy of compelling the heads of the
contending factions to take up their residence within her walls. The
result was that she herself became the seat of discord. Each of the
two factions found ardent adherents, and, adopting the names by
which they had been distinguished in Pistoia, Florence was almost
instantly ablaze with the passionate quarrel between the Whites and
the Blacks (Bianchi and Neri). The flames burned so high that the
Pope, Boniface VIII., intervened to quench them. His intervention
was vain.
It was just at this time that Dante became prior. The need of
action to restore peace to the city was imperative, and the priors
took the step of banishing the leaders of both divisions. Among
those of the Bianchi was Dante's own nearest friend, Guido Caval-
cante. The measure was insufficient to secure tranquillity and order.
The city was in constant tumult; its conditions went from bad to
worse. But in spite of civil broils, common affairs must still be
attended to, and from a document preserved in the Archives at
Florence we learn that on the 28th April, 1301, Dante was appointed
superintendent, without salary, of works undertaken for the widening,
straightening, and paving of the street of San Procolo and making it
safe for travel. On the i3th of the same month he took part in a
discussion, in the Council of the Heads of the twelve greater Arts, as
to the mode of procedure in the election of future priors. On the
1 8th of June, in the Council of the Hundred Men, he advised against
providing the Pope with a force of one hundred men which had been
asked for; and again in September of the same year there is record,
for the last time, of his taking part in the Council, in a discussion
in regard (<to the conservation of the Ordinances of Justice and the
Statutes of the People. »
These notices of the part taken by Dante in public affairs seem
at first sight comparatively slight and unimportant; but were one
constructing an ideal biography of him, it would be hard to devise
records more appropriate to the character and principles of the man
as they appear from his writings. The sense of the duty of the
individual to the community of which he forms a part was one
of his strongest convictions; and his being put in charge of the
opening of the street of San Procolo, and making it safe for travel,
<(eo quod popularis comitatus absque strepitu et briga magnatum et
potentum possunt secure venire ad dominos priores et vexilliferum
justitiae cum expedit w (so that the common people may, without uproar
and harassing of magnates and mighty men, have access whenever it
be desirable to the Lord Priors and the Standard-Bearer of Justice),
affords a comment on his own criticism of his fellow-citizens, whose
DANTE
4327
disposition to shirk the burden of public duty is more than once
the subject of his satire. w Many refuse the common burden, but
thy people, my Florence, eagerly replies without being called on,
and cries, <I load myself )W (( Purgatory, * vi. 133-135). His counsel
against providing the Pope with troops was in conformity with
his fixed political conviction that the function of the Papacy was to
be confined to the spiritual government of mankind; and nothing
could be more striking, as a chance incident, than that the last
occasion on which he, whose heart was set on justice, took part in
the counsels of his city, should have been for the discussion of the
means for <( the conservation of the ordinances of justice and the
statutes of the people. w
In the course of events in 1300 and 1301 the Bianchi proved the
stronger of the two factions by which the city was divided, they
resisted with success the efforts of the Pope in support of their
rivals, and they were charged by their enemies with intent to restore
the rule of the city to the Ghibellines. While affairs were in this
state, Charles of Valois, brother to the King of France, Philip the
Fair, was passing through Italy with a troop of horsemen to join
Charles II. of Naples,* in the attempt to regain Sicily from the hands
of Frederic of Aragon. The Pope favored the expedition, and held
out flattering promises to Charles. The latter reached Anagni, where
Boniface was residing, in September 1301. Here it was arranged
that before proceeding to Sicily, Charles should undertake to reduce
to obedience the refractory opponents of the Pope in Tuscany. The
title of the Pacifier of Tuscany was bestowed on him, and he moved
toward Florence with his own troop and a considerable additional
force of men-at-arms. He was met on his way by deputies from
Florence, to whom he made fair promises ; and trusting to his good
faith, the Florentines opened their gates to him and he entered the
city on All Saints' Day (November ist), 1301.
Charles had hardly established himself in his quarters before he
cast his pledges to the wind. The exiled Neri, with his connivance,
broke into the city, and for six days worked their will upon their
enemies, slaying many of them, pillaging and burning their houses,
while Charles looked on with apparent unconcern at the wide-spread
ruin and devastation. New priors, all of them from the party of the
Neri, entered upon office in mid-November, and a new Podesta,
Cante dei Gabrielli of Agobbio, was charged with the administration
of justice. The persecution of the Bianchi was carried on with con-
sistent thoroughness: many were imprisoned, many fined, Charles
* Charles II. of Naples was the cousin of Philip III., the Bold, of France,
the father of Charles of Valois; and in 1290 Charles of Valois had married
his daughter.
4328
DANTE
sharing in the sums exacted from them. On the 27th of January,
1302, a decree was issued by the Podesta condemning five persons,
one of whom was Dante, to fine and banishment on account of
crimes alleged to have been committed by them while holding office
as priors. <( According to public report, w said the decree, wthey com-
mitted barratry, sought illicit gains, and practiced unjust extortions
of money or goods." These general charges are set forth with elab-
orate legal phraseology, and with much repetition of phrase, but
without statement of specific instances. The most important of them
are that the accused had spent money of the commune in opposing
the Pope, in resistance to the coming of Charles of Valois, and
against the peace of the city and the Guelf party; that they had
promoted discord in the city of Pistoia, and had caused the expulsion
from that city of the Neri, the faithful adherents of the Holy Roman
Church ; and that they had caused Pistoia to break its union with
Florence, and to refuse subjection to the Church and to Charles the
Pacificator of Tuscany. These being the charges, the decree pro-
ceeded to declare that the accused, having been summoned to appear
within a fixed time before the Podesta and his court to make their
defense, under penalty for non-appearance of five thousand florins
each, and having failed to do so, were now condemned to pay this sum
and to restore their illicit gains ; and if this were not done within
three days from the publication of this sentence against them, all their
possessions (bona) should be seized and destroyed; and should they
make the required payment, they were nevertheless to stand ban-
ished from Tuscany for two years; and for perpetual memory of
their misdeeds their names were to be inscribed in the Statutes of
the People, and as swindlers and barrators they were never to hold
office or benefice within the city or district of Florence.
Six weeks later, on the loth of March, another decree of the
Podesta was published, declaring the five citizens named in the pre-
ceding decree, together with ten others, to have practically confessed
their guilt by their contumacy in non-appearance when summoned,
and condemning them, if at any time any one of them should come
into the power of Florence, to be burned to death ((< talis perveniens
igne comburatur sic quod moriatur *).*
From this time forth till his death Dante was an exile. The
character of the decrees is such that the charges brought against him
have no force, and leave no suspicion resting upon his actions as an
officer of the State. They are the outcome and expression of the
* These decrees and the other public documents relating to Dante are to be
found in various publications. They have all been collected and edited by
Professor George R. Carpenter, in the tenth and eleventh Annual Reports of
the Dante Society, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1891, 1892.
DANTE
4329
bitterness of party rage, and they testify clearly only to his having
been one of the leaders of the parties opposed to the pretensions of
the Pope, and desirous to maintain the freedom of Florence from
foreign intervention.
In April Charles left Florence, <( having finished, w says Villani, the
eye-witness of these events, (< that for which he had come, namely,
under pretext of peace, having driven the White party from Flor-
ence; but from this proceeded many calamities and dangers to our
city.»
The course of Dante's external life in exile is hardly less obscure
than that of his early days. Much concerning it may be inferred
with some degree of probability from passages in his own writ-
ings, or from what is reported by others; but of actual certain facts
there are few. For a time he seems to have remained with his com-
panions in exile, of whom there were hundreds, but he soon sep-
arated himself from them in grave dissatisfaction, making a party by
himself ('Paradiso,* xvii. 69), and found shelter at the court of the
Scaligeri at Verona. In August 1306 he was among the witnesses
to a contract at Padua. In October of the same year he was with
Franceschino, Marchese Malespina, in the district called the Luni-
giana, and empowered by him as his special procurator and envoy to
establish the terms of peace for him and his brothers with the Bishop
of Luni. His gratitude to the Malespini for their hospitality and
good-will toward him is proved by one of the most splendid compli-
ments ever paid in verse or prose, the magnificent eulogium of this
great and powerful house with which the eighth canto of the ( Purga-
tory} closes. How long Dante remained with the Malespini, and
whither he went after leaving them, is unknown. At some period of
his exile he was at Lucca (( Purgatorio,' xxiv. 45); Villani states that
he was at Bologna, and afterwards at Paris, and in many parts of
the world. He wandered far and wide in Italy, and it may well be
that in the course of his years of exile he went to Paris, drawn
thither by the opportunities of learning which the University afforded ;
but nothing is known definitely of his going.
In 1311 the mists which obscure the greater part of Dante's life
in exile are dispelled for a moment, by three letters of unquestioned
authenticity, and we gain a clear view of the poet. In 1310 Henry
of Luxemburg, a man who touched the imagination of his contempo-
raries by his striking presence and chivalric accomplishments as well
as by his high character and generous aims, (<a man just, religious,
and strenuous in arms," having been elected Emperor, as Henry VII.,
prepared to enter Italy, with intent to confirm the imperial rights
and to restore order to the distracted land. The Pope, Clement V.,
favored his coming, and the prospect opened by it was hailed not
4330 DANTE
only by the Ghibellines with joy, but by a large part of the Guelfs
as well; with the hope that the long discord and confusion, from
which all had suffered, might be brought to end and give place to
tranquillity and justice. Dante exulted in this new hope; and on the
coming of the Emperor, late in 1310, he addressed an animated
appeal to the rulers and people of Italy, exhorting them in impas-
sioned words to rise up and do reverence to him whom the Lord of
heaven and earth had ordained for their king. (< Behold, now is the
accepted time; rejoice, O Italy, dry thy tears; efface, O most beauti-
ful, the traces of mourning; for he is at hand who shall deliver
thee.»
The first welcome of Henry was ardent, and with fair auspices he
assumed at Milan, in January 1311, the Iron Crown, the crown of the
King of Italy. Here at Milan Dante presented himself, and here with
full heart he did homage upon his knees to the Emperor. But the
popular welcome proved hollow; the illusions of hope speedily began
to vanish ; revolt broke out in many cities of Lombardy ; Florence
remained obdurate, and with great preparations for resistance put
herself at the head of the enemies of the Emperor. Dante, disap-
pointed and indignant, could not keep silence. He wrote a letter
headed (( Dante Alaghieri, a Florentine and undeservedly in exile, to
the most wicked Florentines within the city." It begins with calm
and eloquent words in regard to the divine foundation of the impe-
rial power, and to the sufferings of Italy due to her having been left
withoiit its control to her own undivided will. Then it breaks forth
in passionate denunciation of Florence for her impious arrogance in
venturing to rise up in mad rebellion against the minister of God;
and, warning her of the calamities which her blind obstinacy is pre-
paring for her, it closes with threats of her impending ruin and
desolation. This letter is dated from the springs of the Arno, on
the 3ist of March.
The growing force of the opposition which he encountered delayed
the progress of Henry. Dante, impatient of delay, eager to see the
accomplishment of his hope, on the i6th of April addressed Henry
himself in a letter of exalted prophetic exhortation, full of Biblical
language, and of illustrations drawn from sacred and profane story,
urging him not to tarry, but trusting in God, to go out to meet and
to slay the Goliath that stood against him. (< Then the Philistines
will flee, and Israel will be delivered, and we, exiles in Babylon, who
groan as we remember the holy Jerusalem, shall then, as citizens
breathing in peace, recall in joy the miseries of confusion. w But
all was in vain. The drama which had opened with such brilliant
expectations was advancing to a tragic close. Italy became more
confused and distracted than ever. One sad event followed after
DANTE
4331
another. In May the brother of the Emperor fell at the siege of
Brescia ; in September his dearly loved wife Margarita, (< a holy and
good woman, w died at Genoa. The forces hostile to him grew more
and more formidable. He succeeded however in entering Rome in
May 1312, but his enemies held half of the city, and the streets
became the scene of bloody battles; St. Peter's was closed to him,
and Henry, worn and disheartened and in peril, was compelled to
submit to be ingloriously crowned at St. John Lateran. With dimin-
ished strength and with loss of influence he withdrew to Tuscany,
and laid ineffectual siege to Florence. Month after month dragged
along with miserable continuance of futile war. In the summer of
1313, collecting all his forces, Henry prepared to move southward
against the King of Naples. But he was seized with illness, and on
the 24th of August he died at Buonconvento, not far from Siena.
With his death died the hope of union and of peace for Italy. His
work, undertaken with high purpose and courage, had wholly failed.
He had come to set Italy straight before she was ready ('Paradise,'
xxxi. 137). The clouds darkened over her. For Dante the cup of
bitterness overflowed.
How Dante was busied, where he was abiding, during the last
two years of Henry's stay in Italy, we have no knowledge. One
striking fact relating to him is all that is recorded. In the summer
of 1311 the Guelfs in Florence, in order to strengthen themselves
against the Emperor, determined to relieve from ban and to recall
from exile many of their banished fellow-citizens, confident that on
returning home they would strengthen the city in its resistance
against the Emperor. But to the general amnesty which was issued
on the 2d of September there were large exceptions; and impress-
ive evidence of the multitude of the exiles is afforded by the fact
that more than a thousand were expressly excluded from the benefit
of pardon, and were to remain banished and condemned as before.
In the list of those thus still regarded as enemies of Florence stands
the name of Dante.
The death of the Emperor was followed eight months later by
that of the Pope, Clement V., under whom the papal throne had
been removed from Rome to Avignon. There seemed a chance, if
but feeble, that a new pope might restore the Church to the city
which was its proper home, and thus at least one of the wounds of
Italy be healed. The Conclave was bitterly divided; month after
month went by without a choice, the fate of the Church and of Italy
hanging uncertain in the balance. Dante, in whom religion and
patriotism combined as a single passion, saw with grief that the
return of the Church to Italy was likely to be lost through the
selfishness, the jealousies, and the avarice of her chief prelates;
4332
DANTE
and under the impulse of the deepest feeling he addressed a letter
of remonstrance, reproach, and exhortation to the Italian cardinals,
who formed but a small minority in the Conclave, but who might
by union and persistence still secure the election of a pope favorable
to the return. This letter is full of a noble but too vehement zeal.
<(It is for you, being one at heart, to fight manfully for the Bride of
Christ; for the seat of the Bride, which is Rome; for our Italy, and
in a word, for the whole commonwealth of pilgrims upon earth. w
But words were in vain; and after a struggle kept up for two years
and three months, a pope was at last elected who was to fix the
seat of the Papacy only the more firmly at Avignon. Once more
Dante had to bear the pain of disappointment of hopes in whict
selfishness had no part.
And now for years he disappears from sight. What his life was
he tells in a most touching passage near the beginning of his < Con-
vito*: — wFrom the time when it pleased the citizens of Florence, the
fairest and most famous daughter of Rome, to cast me out from her
sweetest bosom (in which I had been born and nourished even to
the summit of my life, and in which, at good peace with them, I
desire with all my heart to repose my weary soul, and to end the
time which is allotted to me), through almost all the regions to
which our tongue extends I have gone a pilgrim, almost a beggar,
displaying against my will the wound of fortune, which is wont often
to be imputed unjustly to [the discredit of] him who is wounded.
Truly I have been a bark without sail and without rudder, borne to
divers ports and bays and shores by that dry wind which grievous
poverty breathes forth, and I have appeared mean in the eyes of many
who perchance, through some report, had imagined me in other
form; and not only has my person been lowered in their sight, but
every work of mine, whether done or to be done, has been held in
less esteem.*
Once more, and for the last time, during these wanderings he
heard the voice of Florence addressed to him, and still in anger. A
decree was issued* on the 6th of November, 1315, renewing the con-
demnation and banishment of numerous citizens, denounced as Ghibel-
lines and rebels, including among them Dante Aldighieri and his sons.
The persons named in this decree are charged with contumacy, and
with the commission of ill deeds against the good state of the Com-
mune of Florence and the Guelf party ; and it is ordered that w if any
*This decree was pronounced in a General Council of the Commune by
the Vicar of King Robert of Naples, into whose hands the Florentines
had given themselves in 1313 for a term of five years, — extended after-
wards to eight, — with the hope that by his authority order might be
preserved within the city.
DANTE
4333
of them shall fall into the power of the Commune he shall be taken
to the place of Justice and there be beheaded. w The motive is
unknown which led to the inclusion in this decree of the sons of
Dante, of whom there were two, now youths respectively a little
more or a little less than twenty years old.*
It is probable that the last years of Dante's life were passed in
Ravenna, under the protection of Guido da Polenta, lord of the city.
It was here that he died, on September nth, 1321. His two sons
were with him, and probably also his daughter Beatrice. He was in
his fifty-seventh year when he went from suffering and from exile to
peace ('Paradiso,* x. 128).
Such are the few absolute facts known concerning the external
events of Dante's life. A multitude of statements, often with much
circumstantial detail, concerning other incidents, have been made by
his biographers; a few rest upon a foundation of probability, but the
mass are guess-work. There is no need to report them; for small as
the sum of our actual knowledge is, it is enough for defining the field
within which his spiritual life was enacted, and for showing the con-
ditions under which his work was done, and by which its character
was largely determined.
in
No poet has recorded his own inner life more fully or with greater
sincerity than Dante. All his more important writings have essen-
tially the character of a spiritual autobiography, extending from his
boyhood to his latest years. Their quality and worth as works of
literature are largely dependent upon their quality and interest as
revelations of the nature of their writer. Their main significance lies
in this double character.
The earliest of them is the (Vita Nuova,' or New Life. It is the
narrative in prose and verse of the beginning and course of the love
which made life new for him in his youth, and which became the
permanent inspiration of his later years, and the bond of union for
him between earth and heaven, between the actual and the ideal,
between the human and the divine. The little book begins with an
account of the boy's first meeting, when he was nine years old, with
* Among the letters ascribed to Dante is one, much noted, in reply to a
letter from a friend in Florence, in regard to terms of absolution on which he
might secure his re-admission to Florence. It is of very doubtful authenticity.
It has no external evidence to support it, and the internal evidence of its
rhetorical form and sentimental tone is all against it. It belongs in the same
class with the famous letter of Fra Ilario, and like that, seems not unlikely
to have been an invention of Boccaccio's.
4334
DANTE
a little maiden about a year younger, who so touched his heart that
from that time forward Love lorded it over his soul. She was called
Beatrice; but whether this was her true name, or whether, because
of its significance of blessing, it was assigned to her as appropriate to
her nature, is left in doubt. Who her parents were, and what were
the events of her life, are also uncertain ; though Boccaccio, who,
some thirty years after Dante's death, wrote a biography of the poet
in which fact and fancy are inextricably intermingled, reports that
he had it upon good authority that she was the daughter of Folco
Portinari, and became the wife of Simone de' Bardi. So far as
Dante's relation to her is concerned, these matters are of no concern.
Just nine years after their first meeting, years during which Dante
says he had often seen her, and her image had stayed constantly
with him, the lady of his love saluted him with such virtue that he
seemed to see all the bounds of bliss, and having already recognized
in himself the art of discoursing in rhyme, he made a sonnet in
which he set forth a vision which had come to him after receiving
his lady's salute. This sonnet has a twofold interest, as being the
earliest of Dante's poetic composition preserved to us, and as describ-
ing a vision which connects it in motive with the vision of the
( Divine Comedy. * It is the poem of a 'prentice hand not yet master
of its craft, and neither in manner nor in conception has it any
marked distinction from the work of his predecessors and contem-
poraries. The narrative of the first incidents of his love forms the
subject of the first part of the little book, consisting of ten poems
and the prose comment upon them; then the poet takes up a new
theme and devotes ten poems to the praise of his lady. The last of
them is interrupted by her death, which took place on the 9th of
June, 1290, when Dante was twenty-five years old. Then he takes
up another new theme, and the next ten poems are devoted to his
grief, to an episode of temporary unfaithfulness to the memory of
Beatrice, and to the revival of fidelity of love for her. One poem,
the last, remains; in which he tells how a sigh, issuing from his
heart, and guided by Love, beholds his lady in glory in the empy-
rean. The book closes with these words : —
(< After this sonnet a wonderful vision appeared to me, in which I saw
things which made me resolve to speak no more of this blessed one until I
could more worthily treat of her. And to attain to this, I study to the utmost
of my power, as she truly knows. So that, if it shall please Him through
whom all things live that my life be prolonged for some years, I hope to say
of her what was never said of any woman. And then, may it please Him
who is the Lord of Grace, that my soul may go to behold the glory of its
lady, namely of that blessed Beatrice, who in glory looks upon the face of
Him gut est per omnia scecula benedictus* (who is blessed forever).
DANTE
4335
There is nothing in the < New Life J which indicates whether
or not Beatrice was married, or which implies that the devotion of
Dante to her was recognized by any special expression of regard on
her part. No interviews between them are recorded; no tokens of
love were exchanged. The reserve, the simple and unconscious dig-
nity of Beatrice, distinguish her no less than her beauty, her grace,
and her ineffable courtesy. The story, based upon actual experience,
is ordered not in literal conformity with fact, but according to the
ideal of the imagination ; and its reality does not consist in the exact-
ness of its record of events, but in the truth of its poetic conception.
Under the narrative lies an allegory of the power of love to trans-
figure earthly things into the likeness of heavenly, and to lift the
soul from things material and transitory to things spiritual and
eternal.
While the little book exhibits many features of a literature in an
early stage of development, and many of the characteristics of a
youthful production, it is yet the first book of modern times which
has such quality as to possess perpetual contemporaneousness. It has
become in part archaic, but it does not become antiquated. It is the
first book in a modern tongue in which prose begins to have freedom
of structure, and ease of control over the resources of the language.
It shows a steady progress in Dante's mastery of literary art. The
stiffness and lack of rhythmical charm of the poems with which it
begins disappear in the later sonnets and canzoni, and before its
close it exhibits the full development of the sweet new style begun
by Dante's predecessor Guido Guinicelli, and of which the secret lay
in obedience to the dictates of nature within the heart.
The date of its compilation cannot be fixed with precision, but
was probably not far from 1295; and the words with which it closes
seem to indicate that the design of the ( Divine Comedy > had already
taken a more or less definite shape in Dante's mind.
The deepest interest of the <New Life* is the evidence which it
affords in regard to Dante's character. The tenderness, sensitive-
ness, and delicacy of feeling, the depth of passion, the purity of
soul which are manifest in it, leave no question as to the controlling
qualities of his disposition. These qualities rest upon a foundation
of manliness, and are buttressed by strong moral principles. At the
very beginning of the book is a sentence, which shows that he had
already gained that self-control which is the prime condition of
strength and worth of character. In speaking of the power which
his imagination gave to Love to rule over him, a power that had its
source in the image of his lady, he adds, <(Yet was that image of
such noble virtue that it never suffered Love to rule me without the
faithful counsel of the reason in those matters in which to listen to
4336
DANTE
its counsel was useful. w His faculties were already disciplined by
study, and his gifts enriched with learning. He was scholar hardly less
than poet. The range of his acquisitions was already wide, and it is
plain that he had had the best instruction which Florence could pro-
vide; and nowhere else could better have been found.
The death of Beatrice was the beginning of a new period of
Dante's self-development. So long as she lived she had led him
along toward the right way. For a time, during the first ecstasy of
grief at her loss, she still sustained him. After a while, he tells us,
his mind, which was endeavoring to heal itself, sought for comfort
in the mode which other comfortless ones had accepted for their
consolation. He read Boethius on the ( Consolations of Philosophy,*
and the words of comfort in Cicero's ( Treatise on Friendship. > By
these he was led to further studies of philosophy, and giving himself
with ardor to its pursuit, he devoted himself to the acquisition of the
wisdom of this* earth, to the neglect, for a time, of the teachings of
Divine revelation. He entered upon paths of study which did not
lead to the higher truth, and at the same time he began to take
active part himself in the affairs of the world. He was attracted by
the allurements of life. He married ; he took office. He shared in
the pleasures of the day. He no longer listened to the voice of the
spirit, nor was faithful to the image of Beatrice in following on
earth the way which should lead him to her in heaven. But mean-
while he wrote verses which under the form of poems of love were
celebrations of the beauty of Philosophy; and he was accomplishing
himself in learning till he became master of all the erudition of his
time; he was meditating deeply on politics, he was studying life
even more than books, he was becoming one of the deepest of
thinkers and one of the -most accomplished of literary artists. But
his life was of the world, worldly, and it did not satisfy him. At
last a change came. He suddenly awoke to consciousness of how
far he had strayed from that good of which Beatrice was the type ;
how basely he had deserted the true ideals of his youth ; how peril-
ous was the life of the world; how near he was to the loss of the
hope of salvation. We know not fully how this change was wrought.
All we know concerning it is to be gathered from passages in his
later works, in which, as in the ^onvito,* he explains the allegorical
significance of some of his poems, or as in the ( Divine Comedy, J he
gives poetic form to his experience as it had shaped itself in his
imagination. There are often difficulties in the interpretation of his
words, nor are all his statements reconcilable with each other in
detail. But I believe that in what I have set forth as the course of
his life between the death of Beatrice and his exile, I have stated
nothing which may not be confirmed by Dante's own testimony.
DANTE
4337
It is possible that during the latter part ot this period Dante
wrote the treatise (On Monarchy,* in which he set forth his views as
to the government of mankind. To ascertain the date of its compo-
sition is both less easy and less important than in the case of his
other long works; because it contains few personal references, and no
indications of the immediate conditions under which it was written.
But it is of importance not only as an exposition of Dante's political
theories and the broad principles upon which those theories rested,
but still more as exhibiting his high ideals in regard to the order of
society and the government of mankind. Its main doctrine might
be called that of ideal Ghibellinism ; and though its arguments are
often unsound, and based upon fanciful propositions and incorrect
analogies, though it exhibits the defects frequent in the 'reasoning
of the time, — a lack of discrimination in regard to the value of
authorities, and no sense of the true nature of evidence, — yet the
spirit with which it is animated is so generous, and its object of
such importance, that it possesses interest alike as an illustration
of Dante's character, and as a monument in the history of political
speculation.
Its purpose was, first, to establish the proposition that the empire,
or supreme universal temporal monarchy, was necessary for the good
order of the world; secondly, that the Roman people had rightfully
attained the dignity of this empire; and thirdly, that the authority
thus obtained was derived immediately from God, and was not de-
pendent on any earthly agent or vicar of God. The discussion of
the first proposition is the most interesting part of the treatise, for
it involves the statement of Dante's general conception of the end
of government and of the true political order. His argument begins
with the striking assertion that the proper work of the human race,
taken as a whole, is to bring into activity all the possibilities of the
intelligence, first to the end of speculation, and secondly in the appli-
cation of speculation to action. He goes on to declare that this can
be achieved only in a state of peace ; that peace is only to be secured
under the rule of one supreme monarch; that thus the government
of the earth is brought into correspondence with the Divine govern-
ment of the universe; and that only under a universal supreme mon-
archy can justice be fully established and complete liberty enjoyed.
The arguments to maintain these theses are ingenious, and in some
instances forcible ; but are too abstract, and too disregardful of the
actual conditions of society. Dante's loftiness of view, his fine ideal
of the possibilities of human life, and his ardent desire to improve
its actual conditions, are manifest throughout, and give value to the
little book as a treatise of morals beyond that which it possesses as
a manual of practical politics,
viu — 272
4338
DANTE
There is little in the ( De Monarchia * which reflects the heat of
the great secular debate between Guelf and Ghibelline; but some-
thing of the passion engendered by it finds expression in the open-
ing of the third book, where Dante, after citing the words of the
prophet Daniel, <( He hath shut the lions' mouths and they have not
hurt me, forasmuch as before him justice was found in me,w goes
on in substance as follows : —
<(The truth concerning the matter which remains to be treated may per-
chance arouse indignation against me. But since Truth from her changeless
throne appeals to me, and Solomon teaches us <to meditate on truth, and to
hate the wicked, > and the philosopher [Aristotle], our instructor in morals,
urges us for the sake of truth to disregard what is dear to us, I, taking
confidence from the words of Daniel in which the Divine power is declared to
be the shield of the defenders of the truth, . . . will enter on the present
contest; and by the arm of Him who by his blood delivered us from the
power of darkness, I will drive out from the lists the impious and the liar.
Wherefore should I fear ? since the Spirit, co-eternal with the Father and the
Son, says through the mouth of David, < The righteous shall be had in ever-
lasting remembrance, he shall not be afraid of evil tidings. >»
These words perhaps justify the inference that the treatise was
written before his exile, since after it his experience of calamity
would have freed him from the anticipation of further evil from the
hostility of those to whom his doctrine might be unacceptable.
But whether or not this be a correct inference, there can be no
doubt that the years between the compilation of the ( New Life } and
his banishment were years of rapid maturity of his powers, and
largely devoted to the studies which made him a master in the field
of learning. Keenly observant of the aspects of contemporary life,
fascinated by the <( immense and magic spectacle of human affairs, w
questioning deeply its significance, engaged actively in practical con-
cerns, he ardently sought for the solution of the mysteries and the
reconcilement of the confusions of human existence. The way to this
solution seemed to lie through philosophy and learning, and in acquir-
ing them he lifted himself above the turmoil of earth. All observa-
tion, experience, and acquisition served as material for his poetic and
idealizing imagination, wherewith to construct an orderly scheme of
the universe; all served for the defining and confirming of his moral
judgments, all worked together for the harmonious development of
his intellectual powers; all served to prepare him for the work
which, already beginning to shape itself in his mind, was to become
the main occupation of the remainder of his life, and to prove one
of the abiding monuments of the highest achievements of mankind.
The ( De Monarchia > is written in Latin, and so also is a brief
unfinished treatise, the work of some period during his exile, on the
DANTE
4339
Common Speech, (De Vulgari Eloquio.' It has intrinsic interest as
the first critical study of language and of literature in modern times,
as well as from the acute and sound judgments with which it
abounds, and from its discussion of the various forms and topics of
poetry, but still more from its numerous illustrations of Dante's per-
sonal experience and sentiment. Its object is to teach the right use
of the common speech; instruction required by all, since all make use
of the speech, it being that which all learn from birth, (<by imita-
tion and without rule. The other speech, which the Romans called
Grammatiea, is learned by study and according to rule. ... Of
these two the Common is the more noble, because it was the first
used by the human race, and also because it is in use over all the
world, though in different tongues ; and again because it is natural to
us, while the other is artificial.* Speech, Dante declares, is the pre-
rogative of man alone, not required by the angels and not possible
for brutes; there was originally but one language, the Hebrew. In
treating of this latter topic Dante introduces a personal reference of
extraordinary interest in its bearing on his feeling in respect to his
exile : —
(( It is for those of such debased intelligence that they believe the place
of their birth to be the most delightful under the sun, to prefer their own
peculiar tongue, and to believe that it was that of Adam. But we whose
country is the world, as the sea is for fishes, although we drank of the Arno
before we were weaned, and so love Florence that because we loved it we
suffer exile unjustly, support our judgment by reason rather than feeling.
And though in respect to our pleasure and the repose of our senses, no
sweeter place exists on earth than Florence, . . . yet we hold it for cer-
tain that there are many more delightful regions and cities than Tuscany and
Florence, where I was born and of which I am a citizen, and that many
nations and people use a more pleasing and serviceable speech than the
Italians. w
The conclusion of this speculation is, that the Hebrew, which was
the original language spoken by Adam, was preserved by the Hebrew
people after the confusion of tongues at the building of the Tower
of Babel, and thus became the language used by our Redeemer, —
the language not of confusion but of grace.
But the purpose of the present treatise is not to consider all the
divers languages even of Europe, but only that of Italy. Yet in Italy
alone there is an immense variety of speech, and no one of the
varieties is the true Italian language. That true, illustrious, courtly
tongue is to be found nowhere in common use, but everywhere in
select usage. It is the common speech "freed from rude words,
involved constructions, defective pronunciation, and rustic accent;
excellent, clear, perfect, urbane, and elect, as it may be seen in the
4340 DANTE
poems of ( Cino da Pistoia and his friend, > w — that friend being Dante
himself. They have attained to the glory of the tongue, and <(how
glorious truly it renders its servants we ourselves know, who to the
sweetness of its glory hold our exile as naught. w* This illustrious
language, then, is the select Italian tongue, the tongue of the
excellent poets in every part of Italy; and how and by whom it is
to be used it is the purpose of this treatise to show.
The second book begins with the doctrine that the best speech is
appropriate to the best conceptions; but the best conceptions exist
only where there is learning and genius, and the best speech is con-
sequently that only of those who possess them, and only the best
subjects are worthy of being treated in it. These subjects fall under
three heads: that of utility, or safety, which it is the object of arms
to secure; that of delight, which is the end of love; that of worthi-
ness, which is attained by virtue. These are the topics of the illus-
trious poets in the vulgar tongue; and of these, among the Italians,
Cino da Pistoia has treated of love, and his friend (Dante) of rec-
titude.
The remainder of the second book is given to the various forms
of poetry, — the canzone, the ballata, the sonnet, — and to the rules of
versification. The work breaks off unfinished, in the middle of a
sentence. There were to have been at least two books more ; but,
fragment as it is, the treatise is an invaluable document in the illus-
tration of Dante's study of his own art, in its exhibition of his
breadth of view, and in its testimony to his own consciousness of his
position as the master of his native tongue, and as the poet of
righteousness. He failed in his estimate of himself only as it fell
short of the truth. He found the common tongue of Italy unformed,
unstable, limited in powers of expression. He shaped it not only for
his own needs, but for the needs of the Italian race. He developed
its latent powers, enlarged its resources, and determined its form.
The language as he used it is essentially the language of to-day, —
not less so than the language of Shakespeare is the English of our
use. In his poetic diction there is little that is not in accord with
later usage ; and while in prose the language has become more flexi-
ble, its constructions more varied and complex, its rhythm more
perfected, his prose style at its best still remains unsurpassed in
vigor, in directness, and in simplicity. Changeful from generation
to generation as language is, and as Dante recognized it to be,
it has not so changed in six hundred years that his tongue has
become strange. There is no similar example in any other modern
* Literally, (< who by the sweetness of its glory put exile behind our
back.»
DANTE
4341
literature. The force of his genius, which thus gave to the form
of his work a perpetual contemporaneousness, gave it also to the sub-
stance; and though the intellectual convictions of men have changed
far more than their language, yet Dante's position as the poet of
righteousness remains supreme.
It is surprising that with such a vast and difficult work as the
( Divine Comedy * engaging him, Dante should have found time and
strength during his exile for the writing of treatises in prose so con-
siderable as that on the Common Tongue, and the much longer and
more important book which he called < II Convivio > or ( II Convito *
(The Banquet). It is apparent from various references in the course
of the work that it was at least mainly written between 1307 and
1310. Its design was of large scope. It was to be composed of
fifteen parts or treatises; but of these only four were completed, and
such is their character both as regards their exhibition of the poet's
nature and their exposition of the multifarious topics of philosophy,
of science, and of morals treated in them, that the student of Dante
and of mediaeval thought cannot but feel a deep regret at the failure
of the poet to carry his undertaking to its intended close. But
though the work is imperfect as a whole, each of its four parts is
complete and practically independent in itself.
Dante's object in the book was twofold. His opening words are a
translation of what Matthew Arnold calls <(that buoyant and immortal
sentence with which Aristotle begins his Metaphysics, » — <( All mankind
naturally desire knowledge. }> But few can attain to what is desired
by all, and innumerable are they who live always famished for want
of this food. (< Oh, blessed are the few who sit at that table where
the bread of the angels is eaten, and wretched they who have food
in common with the herds. w (< I, therefore, who do not sit at the
blessed table, but having fled from the pasture of the crowd, gather
up at the feet of those who sit at it what falls from them, and
through the sweetness I taste in that which little by little I pick up,
know the wretched life of those whom I have left behind me, and
moved with pity for them, not forgetting myself, have reserved
something for these wretched ones.* These crumbs were the sub-
stance of the banquet which he proposed to spread for them. It was
to have fourteen courses, and each of these courses was to have for
its principal viand a canzone of which the subject should be Love
and Virtue, and the bread served with each course was to be the
exposition of these poems, — poems which for want of this exposition
lay under the shadow of obscurity, so that by many their beauty was
more esteemed than their goodness. They were in appearance mere
poems of love, but under this aspect they concealed their true mean-
ing, for the lady of his love was none other than Philosophy herself,
4342
DANTE
and not sensual passion but virtue was their moving cause. The fear
of reproach to which this misinterpretation might give occasion, and
the desire to impart teaching 'which others could not give, were the
two motives of his work.
There is much in the method and style of the ( Convito > which in
its cumbrous artificiality exhibits an early stage in the exposition of
thought in literary form, but Dante's earnestness of purpose is appar-
ent in many passages of manly simplicity, and inspires life into the
dry bones of his formal scholasticism. The book is a mingling of
biographical narrative, shaped largely by the ideals of the imagina-
tion, with expositions of philosophical doctrine, disquisitions on mat-
ters of science, and discussion of moral truths. But one controlling
purpose runs through all, to help men to attain that knowledge
which shall lead them into the paths of righteousness.
For his theory of knowledge is, that it is the natural and innate
desire of the soul, as essential to its own perfection in its ultimate
union with God. The use of the reason, through which he partakes
of the Divine nature, is the true life of man. Its right use in the
pursuit of knowledge leads to philosophy, which is, as its name sig-
nifies, the love of wisdom, and its end is the attainment of virtue.
It is because of imperfect knowledge that the love of man is turned
to fallacious objects of desire, and his reason is perverted. Knowl-
edge, then, is the prime source of good; ignorance, of evil. Through
knowledge to wisdom is the true path of the soul in this life on her
return to her Maker, to know whom is her native desire, and her
perfect beatitude.
In the exposition of these truths in their various relations a multi-
tude of topics of interest are touched upon, and a multitude of opin-
ions expressed which exhibit the character of Dante's mind and the
vast extent of the acquisitions by which his studies had enriched it.
The intensity of his moral convictions and the firmness of his moral
principles are no less striking in the discourse than the nobility of
his genius and the breadth of his intellectual view. Limited and
erroneous as are many of his scientific conceptions, there is little
trace of superstition or bigotry in his opinions; and though his spec-
ulations rest on a false conception of the universe, the revolting
dogmas of the common mediaeval theology in respect to the human
and the Divine nature find no place in them. The mingling of fancy
with fact, the unsoundness of the premises from which conclusions
are drawn, the errors in belief and in argument, do not affect the
main object of his writing, and the ( Convito * may still be read with
sympathy and with profit, as a treatise of moral doctrine by a man
the loftiness of whose intelligence rose superior to the hampering
limitations of his age.
DANTE
4343
In its general character and in its biographical revelations the
( Banquet * forms a connecting link between the ( New Life * and the
* Divine Comedy. * It is not possible to frame a complete reconcilia-
tion between all the statements of the < Banquet * in respect to
Dante's experience after the death of Beatrice, and the narrative of
them in the (New Life*; nor is it necessary, if we allow due place
to the poetic and allegoric interpretation of events natural to Dante's
genius. In the last part of the * New Life * he tells of his infidelity
to Beatrice in yielding himself to the attraction of a compassionate
lady, in whose sight he found consolation. But the infidelity was of
short duration, and, repenting it, he returned with renewed devotion
to his only love. In the 'Convito* he tells us that the compassionate
lady was no living person, but was the image of Philosophy, in whose
teaching he had found comfort; and the poems which he then wrote
and which had the form, and were in the terms of, poems of Love,
were properly to be understood as addressed — not to any earthly
lady, but — to the lady of the understanding, the most noble and
beautiful Philosophy, the daughter of God. And as this image of
Philosophy, as the fairest of women, whose eyes and whose smile
reveal the joys of Paradise, gradually took clear form, it coalesced
with the image of Beatrice herself, she who on earth had been the
type to her lover of the beauty of eternal things, and who had
revealed to him the Creator in his creature. But now having become
one of the blessed in heaven, with a spiritual beauty transcending
all earthly charm, she was no longer merely a type of heavenly
things, but herself the guide to the knowledge of them, and the
divinely commissioned revealer of the wisdom of God. She looking
on the face of God reflected its light upon him who loved her. She
was one with Divine Philosophy, and as such she appears, in living
form, in the ( Divine Comedy, * and discloses to her lover the truth
which is the native desire of the soul, and in the attainment of
which is beatitude.
It is this conception which forms the bond of union between the
< New Life, > the < Banquet, > and the ( Divine Comedy, > and not merely
as literary compositions but as autobiographical records. Dante's life
and his work are not to be regarded apart ; they form a single whole,
and they possess a dramatic development of unparalleled consist-
ency and unity. The course of the events of his life shaped itself
in accordance with an ideal of the imagination, and to this ideal his
works correspond. His first writing, in his poems of love and in
the story of the (New Life,* forms as it were the first act of a
drama which proceeds from act to act in its presentation of his life,
with just proportion and due sequence, to its climax and final scene
in the last words of the ( Divine Comedy.* It is as if Fate had
4344
DANTE
foreordained the dramatic unity of his life and work, and impress-
ing her decree upon his imagination, had made him her more or less
conscious instrument in its fulfillment.
Had Dante written only his prose treatises and his minor poems,
he would still have come down to us as the most commanding liter-
ary figure of the Middle Ages, the first modern with a true literary
sense, the writer of love verses whose imagination was at once more
delicate and more profound than that of any among the long train of
his successors, save Shakespeare alone, and more free from sensual
stain than that of Shakespeare ; the poet of sweetest strain and full-
est control of the resources of his art, the scholar of largest acquisi-
tion and of completest mastery over his acquisitions, and the moralist
with higher ideals of conduct and more enlightened conceptions of
duty than any other of the period to which he belonged. All this
he would have been, and this would have secured for him a place
among the immortals. But all this has but a comparatively small
part in raising him to the station which he actually occupies, and in
giving to him the influence which he still exerts. It was in the
( Divine Comedy * that his genius found its full expression, and it is
to this supreme poem that all his other work serves as substructure.
The general scheme of this poem seems to have been early
formed by him; and its actual composition was the main occupation
of his years of exile, and must have been its main, one might say
its sufficient, consolation. Never was a book of wider scope devised
by man; and never was one more elaborate in detail, more varied in
substance, or more complete in execution. It is unique in the con-
sistency of its form with its spirit. It possesses such organic unity
and proportion as to resemble a work of the creative spirit of Nature
herself.
The motive which inspired Dante in the < Divine Comedy * had its
source in his sense of the wretchedness of man in this mortal life,
owing to the false direction of his desires, through his ignorance and
his misuse of his free will, the chief gift of God to him. The only
means of rescue from this wretchedness was the exercise by man of
his reason, enlightened by the divine grace, in the guidance of his
life. To convince man of this truth, to bring home to him the con-
viction of the eternal consequences of his conduct in this world, to
show him the path of salvation, was Dante's aim. As poet he had
received a Divine commission to perform this work. To him the ten
talents had been given, and it was for him to put them to the use
for which they had been bestowed. It was a consecrated task to
which both heaven and earth set their hand, and a loftier task was
never undertaken. It was to be accomplished by expounding the
design of God in the creation, by setting forth the material and
DANTE 4345
moral order of the universe and the share of man in that order, and
his consequent duty and destiny. This was not to be done in the
form of abstract propositions addressed to the understanding, but in
a poetic narrative which should appeal to the heart and arouse the
imagination; a narrative in which human life should be portrayed as
an unbroken spiritual existence, prefiguring in its mortal aspects and
experience its immortal destiny. The poem was not to be a mere
criticism of life, but a solution of its mystery, an explanation of its
meaning, and a guide of its course.
To give force and effect to such a design the narrative must be
one of personal experience, so conceived as to be a type of the uni-
versal experience of man. The poem was to be an allegory, and in
making himself its protagonist Dante assumed a double part. He
represents both the individual Dante, the actual man, and that man
as the symbol of man in general. His description of his journey
through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise has a literal veracity; and un-
der the letter is the allegory of the conduct and consequences of all
human life. The literal meaning and the allegorical are the web and
woof of the fabric, in which the separate incidents are interwoven,
with twofold thread, in designs of infinite variety, complexity, and
beauty.
In the journey through Hell, Dante represents himself as guided
by Virgil, who has been sent to his aid on the perilous way by Bea-
trice, incited by the Holy Virgin herself, in her infinite compassion
for one who has strayed from the true way in the dark forest of the
world. Virgil is the type of the right reason, that reason whose
guidance, if followed, leads man to the attainment of the moral vir-
tues, by the practice of which sin may be avoided, but which by
themselves are not enough for salvation. These were the virtues of
the virtuous heathen, unenlightened by divine revelation. Through
the world, of whose evil Hell is the type and fulfillment, reason is
the sufficient guide and guard along the perilous paths which man
must traverse, exposed to the assaults of sin, subject to temptation,
and compelled to face the very Devil himself. And when at last,
worn and wearied by long-continued effort, and repentant of his fre-
quent errors, he has overcome temptation, and entered on a course
of purification through suffering and penitence, whereby he may
obtain forgiveness and struggle upward to the height of moral virtue,
reason still suffices to lead him on the difficult ascent, until he reaches
the security and the joy of having overcome the world. But now
reason no longer is sufficient. Another guide is needed to lead the
soul through heavenly paths to the attainment of the divine virtues
of faith, hope, and charity, by which the soul is made fit for Paradise.
And here Beatrice, the type of theology, or knowledge of the things
4346
DANTE
of God, takes the place of Virgil, and conducts the purified and
redeemed soul on its return to its divine source, to the consumma-
tion of its desires and its bliss in the vision of God himself.
Such is the general scheme of the poem, in which the order of
the universe is displayed and the life of man depicted, in scenes of
immense dramatic variety and of unsurpassed imaginative reality. It
embraces the whole field of human experience. Nature, art, the
past, the present, learning, philosophy, all contribute to it. The
mastery of the poet over all material which can serve him is com-
plete; the force of his controlling imagination corresponds with the
depth and intensity of his moral purpose. And herein lies the
exceptional character of the poem, as at once a work of art of
supreme beauty and a work of didactic morals of supreme signifi-
cance. Art indeed cannot, if it would, divorce itself from morals.
Into every work of art, whether the artist intend it or not, enters a
moral element. But in art, beauty does not submit to be subor-
dinated to any other end, and it is the marvel in Dante that while
his main intent is didactic, he attains it by a means of art so per-
fect that only in a few rare passages does beauty fall a sacrifice to
doctrine. The divine Comedy > is indeed not less incomparable in
its beauty than in its vast compass, the variety of its interest, and in
the harmony of its form with its spirit. In his lectures ( On Trans-
lating Homer* Mr. Arnold, speaking of the metre of ( Paradise Lost,*
says: — <(To this metre, as used in the ( Paradise Lost,* our country
owes the glory of having produced one of the only two poetical
works in the grand style which are to be found in the modern lan-
guages ; the ( Divine Comedy * of Dante is the other. * But Mr. Arnold
does not point out the extraordinary fact, in regard to the style of
the < Divine Comedy, * that this poem stands at the beginning of
modern literature, that there was no previous modern standard of style,
that the language was molded and the verse invented by Dante ; that
he did not borrow his style from the ancients, and that when he
says to Virgil, (< Thou art he from whom I took the fair style that
has done me honor,* he meant only that he had learned from him
the principles of noble and adequate poetic expression. The style of
the ( Divine Comedy * is as different from that of the JEneid as it is
from that of ( Paradise Lost. *
There are few other works of man, perhaps there is no other,
which afford such evidence as the ( Divine Comedy * of uninterrupted
consistency of purpose, of sustained vigor of imagination, and of
steady force of character controlling alike the vagaries of the poetic
temperament, the wavering of human purpose, the fluctuation of
human powers, and the untowardness of circumstance. From begin-
ning to end of this work of many years there is no flagging of
4347
energy, no indication of weakness. The shoulders, burdened by a
task almost too great for mortal strength, never tremble under their
load.
The contrast between the inner and the outer life of Dante is one
of the most impressive pictures of human experience; the pain, the
privation, the humiliation of outward circumstance so bitter, so pro-
longed; the joy, the fullness, the exaltation of inward condition so
complete, the achievement so great. Above all other poetry the
* Divine Comedy > is the expression of high character, and of a manly
nature of surpassing breadth and tenderness of sympathy, of intensity
of moral earnestness, and elevation of purpose. One closes the nar-
rative of Dante's life and the study of his works with the conviction
that he was not only one of the greatest among poets, but a man
whose character gives to his poetry its highest and its most enduring
interest.
NOTES
For the student of Italian, the following books may be recom-
mended as opening the way to the study of Dante's life and works :
1. Tutte le Opere di Dante Alighieri. Nuovamente rivedute nel
testo da Dr. E. Moore. Oxford, 1894, i vol.; sm. 8vo; pp. x, 490.
[The best text of Dante's works, and the only edition of them in
one volume. Invaluable to the student.]
2. La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri. Riveduta . . . e
commentata da G. A. Scartazzini. 2d ediz., Milano, 1896, i vol.; sm.
8vo; pp. xx, 1034; col Rimario ed Indice, pp. 122. On the whole the
most useful edition for the beginner. The historical and biographi-
cal notes and the references to the sources of Dante's allusions are
abundant and good; but interpretations of difficult passages or words
are not always unquestionable.
Scartazzini's edition of the < Divina Commedia * in three volumes,
with his volume of ( Prolegomeni, * may be commended to the more
advanced student, who will find it, especially the volume of the
Paradise,* a rich storehouse of information.
For the English reader the following books and essays will be
useful: — Gary's translation of the ( Divine Comedy, > in blank verse.
4348
DANTE
modeled on Milton's verse, and remote from the tone of the original,.
This is the version of a refined scholar; it has been much admired
and is generally quoted in England. It is furnished with good notes.
Longfellow's verse-for-verse unrhymed translation is far the most
accurate of the English translations in verse, and is distinguished
also for the verbal felicity of its renderings. The comment accom-
panying it is extensive and of great value, by far the best in English.
Of literal prose translations, there are among others that of the
inferno* by Dr. John Carlyle, which is of very great merit; that of
the whole poem, with a comment of interest, by Mr. A. J. Butler; and
that also of the whole poem and of the * New Life * by C. E. Norton.
The various works on Dante by the Rev. Dr. Edward Moore, of
Oxford, are all of the highest worth, and quite indispensable to the
thorough student. Their titles are — ( Contributions to the Textual
Criticism of the Divina Commedia,* < Time References in the Divina
Commedia,* ( Dante and his Early Biographers,' and ( Studies in
Dante. >
Lowell's essay on ( Dante * (prose works of James Russell Lowell,
Riverside edition, Vol. iv.), and ( Dante,' an essay by the Rev. R. W.
Church, late Dean of St. Paul's, should be read by every student.
They will open the way to further reading. TKe ( Concordance to
the Divine Comedy,* by Dr. E. A. Fay, published by Ginn and Com-
pany, Boston, for the Dante Society, is a book which the student
should have always at hand.
c. E. N.
DANTE'S HOUSE
FLORENCE, ITALY
DANTE
4349
SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF DANTE
IN MAKING the following translations from Dante's chief works, my
attempt has been to choose passages which should each have
interest in itself, but which, taken together, should have a natu-
ral sequence and should illustrate the development of the ruling ideas
and controlling sentiment of Dante's life. But they lose much of their
power and beauty in being separated from their context, and the
reader should bear in mind that such is the closeness of texture of
Dante's work, and so complete its unity, that extracts, however
numerous and extended, fail to give an adequate impression of its
character as a whole. Moreover, no poems suffer greater loss in
translation than Dante's, for in no others is there so intimate a rela-
tion between the expression and the feeling, between the rhythmical
form and the poetic substance. c. E. N.
FROM THE <NEW LIFE)
1. The beginning of love.
2. The first salutation of his Lady.
3. The praise of his Lady.
4. Her loveliness.
5. Her death.
6. The anniversary of her death.
7. The hope to speak more worthily of her.
FROM THE < BANQUET)
1. The consolation of Philosophy.
2. The desire of the Soul.
3. The noble Soul at the end of Life.
FROM THE <DIVINE COMEDY >
1. Hell, Cantos i. and ii. The entrance on the journey through the
eternal world.
2. Hell, Canto v. The punishment of carnal sinners.
3. Purgatory, Canto xxvii. The final purgation.
4. Purgatory, Cantos xxx, xxxi. The meeting with his Lady in the
Earthly Paradise.
5. Paradise, Canto xxxiii. The final vision.
4350 DANTE
The selections from the (New Life* are from Professor Norton's translation,
copyrighted 1867, 1892, 1895, and reprinted by permission of Professor
Norton and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston, Mass.
THE NEW LIFE
I
THE BEGINNING OF LOVE
NINE times now, since my birth, the heaven of light had
turned almost to the same point in its own gyration, when
the glorious Lady of my mind, who was called Beatrice by
many who knew not why she was so called, first appeared before
my eyes. She had already been in this life so long that in its
course the starry heaven had moved toward the region of the
East one of the twelve parts of a degree; so that at about the
beginning of her ninth year she appeared to me, and I near the
end of my ninth year saw her. She appeared to me clothed in
a most noble color, a modest and becoming crimson, and she
was girt and adorned in such wise as befitted her very youthful
age. . . .
From that time forward Love lorded it over my soul, which
had been so speedily wedded to him: and he began to exercise
over me such control and such lordship, through the power
which my imagination gave to him, that it behoved me to do
completely all his pleasure. He commanded me ofttimes that I
should seek to see this youthful angel; so that I in my boyhood
often went seeking her, and saw her of such noble and praise-
worthy deportment, that truly of her might be said that word of
the poet Homer, (< She seems not the daughter of mortal man,
but of God. " And though her image, which stayed constantly
with me, gave assurance to Love to hold lordship over me, yet
it was of such noble virtue that it never suffered Love to rule
me without the faithful counsel of the reason in those matters in
which it was useful to hear such counsel. And since to dwell
upon the passions and actions of such early youth seems like
telling an idle tale, I will leave them, and, passing over many
things which might be drawn from the original where these lie
hidden, I will come to those words which are written in my
memory under larger paragraphs.
DANTE
THE FIRST SALUTATION OF His LADY
When so many days had passed that nine years were exactly
complete since the above-described apparition of this most gentle
lady, on the last of these days it happened that this admirable
lady appeared to me, clothed in purest white, between two gentle
ladies, who were of greater age; and, passing along a street, she
turned her eyes toward that place where I stood very timidly,
and by her ineffable courtesy, which is to-day rewarded in the
eternal world, saluted me with such virtue that it seemed to me
then that I saw all the bounds of bliss. . . . And since it
was the first time that her words came to my ears, I took in
such sweetness that, as it were intoxicated, I turned away from
the folk, and betaking myself to the solitude of my own chamber,
I sat myself down to think of this most courteous lady.
And thinking of her, a sweet slumber overcame me, in which
a marvelous vision appeared to me. . . . And [when I
awoke] thinking on what had appeared to me, I resolved to
make it known to many who were famous poets at that time;
and since I had already seen in myself the art of discoursing in
rhyme, I resolved to make a sonnet, in which I would salute all
the liegemen of Love, and would write to them that which I had
seen in my slumber.
in
THE PRAISE OF His LADY
Inasmuch as through my looks many persons had learned the
secret of my heart, certain ladies who were met together, taking
pleasure in one another's company, were well acquainted with my
heart, because each of them had witnessed many of my discom-
fitures. And I, passing near them, as chance led me, was called
by one of these gentle ladies; and she who had called me was a
lady of very pleasing speech; so that when I drew nigh to them
and saw plainly that my most gentle lady was not among them,
reassuring myself, I saluted them and asked what might be
their pleasure. The ladies were many, and certain of them were
laughing together. There were others who were looking at me.
awaiting what I might say. There were others who were talking
together, one of whom, turning her eyes toward me, and calling
me by name, said these words: — (<To what end lovest thou this
4352
thy lady, since them canst not sustain her presence ? Tell it to
us, for surely the end of such a love must be most strange. w
And when she had said these words to me, not only she, but all
the others, began to await with their look my reply. Then I
said to them these words : — <( My ladies, the end of my love was
formerly the salutation of this lady of whom you perchance are
thinking", and in that dwelt the beatitude which was the end of
all my desires. But since it has pleased her to deny it to me,
my lord Love, through his grace, has placed all my beatitude
in that which cannot fail me."
Then these ladies began to speak together: and as sometimes
we see rain falling mingled with beautiful snow, so it seemed to
me I saw their words issue mingled with sighs. And after they
had somewhat spoken among themselves, this lady who had first
spoken to me said to me yet these words : — <( We pray thee that
thou tell us wherein consists this beatitude of thine. w And I,
replying to her, said thus : — (< In those words which praise my
lady.* And she replied: — w If thou hast told us the truth, those
words which thou hadst said to her, setting forth thine own con-
dition, must have been composed with other intent. w
Then I, thinking on these words, as if ashamed, departed
from them, and went saying within myself: — <( Since there is
such beatitude in those words which praise my lady, why has
my speech been of aught else ? " And therefore I resolved
always henceforth to take for theme of my speech that which
should be the praise of this most gentle one. And thinking
much on this, I seemed to myself to have undertaken a theme
too lofty for me, so that I dared not to begin; and thus I tar-
ried some days with desire to speak, and with fear of beginning.
Then it came to pass that, walking on a road alongside of
which was flowing a very clear stream, so great a desire to say
somewhat in verse came upon me, that I began to consider the
method I should observe; and I thought that to speak of her
would not be becoming unless I were to speak to ladies in the
second person; and not to every lady, but only to those who are
gentle, and are not women merely. Then I say that my tongue
spoke as if moved of its own accord, and said, Ladies that have
intelligence of Love. These words I laid up in my mind with
great joy, thinking to take them for my beginning; wherefore
then, having returned to the above-mentioned city, after some
days of thought, I began a canzone with this beginning.
DANTE 4353
IV
THE LOVELINESS OF His LADY
This most gentle lady, of whom there has been discourse in
the preceding words, came into such favor among the people,
that when she passed along the way, persons ran to see her;
which gave me wonderful joy. And when she was near any one,
such modesty came into his heart that he dared not raise his
eyes, or return her salutation; and of this many, as having
experienced it, could bear witness for me to whoso might not
believe it. She, crowned and clothed with humility, took her
way, showing no pride in that which she saw and heard. Many
said, when she had passed: <(This is not a woman; rather she is
one of the most beautiful angels of heaven.8 And others said:
<( She is a marvel. Blessed be the Lord who can work thus
admirably ! w I say that she showed herself so gentle and so full
of all pleasantness, that those who looked on her comprehended
in themselves a pure and sweet delight, such as they could not
after tell in words; nor was there any who might look upon her
but that at first he needs must sigh. These and more admirable
things proceeded from her admirably and with power. Where-
fore I, thinking upon this, desiring to resume the style of her
praise, resolved to say words in which I would set forth her
admirable and excellent influences, to the end that not only those
who might actually behold her, but also others, should know of
her whatever words could tell. Then I devised this sonnet : —
So gentle and so gracious doth appear
My lady when she giveth her salute,
That every tongue becometh, trembling, mute;
Nor do the eyes to look upon her dare.
Although she hears her praises, she doth go
Benignly vested with humility;
And like a thing come down she seems to be
From heaven to earth, a miracle to show.
So pleaseth she whoever cometh nigh,
She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes,
Which none can understand who doth not prove.
And from her countenance there seems to move
A spirit sweet and in Love's very guise,
Who to the soul, in going, sayeth: Sigh!
vui — 273
4354 DANTE
THE DEATH OF His LADY
After that I began to think one day upon what I had said of
my lady, that is, in these two preceding sonnets; and seeing in
my thought that I had not spoken of that which at the present
time she wrought in me, it seemed to me that I had spoken
defectively; and therefore I resolved to say words in which I
would tell how I seemed to myself to be disposed to her influ-
ence, and how her virtue wrought in me. And not believing
that I could relate this in the brevity of a sonnet, I began then
a canzone.
Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo ! facta est quasi vidua domina
gentium. [How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people !
How is she become as a widow! she that was great among the
nations. ]
I was yet full of the design of this canzone, and had com-
pleted [one] stanza thereof, when the Lord of Justice called this
most gentle one to glory, under the banner of that holy Queen
Mary, whose name was ever spoken with greatest reverence by
this blessed Beatrice.
VI
THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF His LADY
On that day on which the year was complete since this lady
was made one of the denizens of life eternal, I was seated in a
place where, having her in mind, I was drawing an angel upon
certain tablets. And while I was drawing it, I turned my eyes
and saw at my side men to whom it was meet to do honor. They
were looking on what I did, and, as was afterwards told me, they
had been there already some time before I became aware of it.
When I saw them I rose, and saluting them, said, (< Another was
just now with me, and on that account I was in thought. w And
when they had gone away, I returned to my work, namely, that
of drawing figures of angels; and while doing this, a thought
came to me of saying words in rhyme, as if for an anniversary
poem of her, and of addressing those persons who had come to
me.
DANTE
4355
After this, two gentle ladies sent to ask me to send them
some of these rhymed words of mine; wherefore I, thinking on
their nobleness, resolved to send to them and to make a new
thing which I would send to them with these, in order that I
might fulfill their prayers with the more honor. And I devised
then a sonnet which relates my condition, and I sent it to them.
Beyond the sphere that widest orbit hath
Passes the sigh which issues from my heart:
A new Intelligence doth Love impart
In tears to him, which guides his upward path.
When at the place desired, his course he stays,
A lady he beholds in honor dight,
Who so doth shine that through her splendid light,
The pilgrim spirit upon her doth gaze.
He sees her such, that dark his words I find —
When he reports, his speech so subtle is
Unto the grieving heart which makes him tell;
But of that gentle one he speaks, I wis,
Since oft he bringeth Beatrice to mind,
So that, O ladies dear, I understand him well.
VII
THE HOPE TO SPEAK MORE WORTHILY OF His LADY
After this, a wonderful vision appeared to me, in which I
saw things which made me resolve to speak no more of the
blessed one, until I could more worthily treat of her. And to
attain to this, I study to the utmost of my power, as she truly
knows. So that, if it shall please Him through whom all things
live that my life be prolonged for some years, I hope to say of
her what was never said of any woman.
And then may it please him who is the Lord of Grace, that
my soul may go to behold the glory of its lady, namely of that
blessed Beatrice, who in glory looks upon the face of Him qui
est per omnia scecula benedictus [who is blessed forever].
4356
DANTE
The translations from the 'Convito* are made for <A Library of the World's
Best Literature > by Professor Norton
THE CONVJTO
I
THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY
K A A 7HEN t^ie ^rst delight of my soul was lost, of which men-
VV tion has already been made, I remained pierced with
such affliction that no comfort availed me. Nevertheless,
after some time, my mind, which was endeavoring to heal itself,
undertook, since neither my own nor others' consoling availed,
to turn to the mode which other comfortless ones had adopted
for their consolation. And I set myself to reading that book of
Boethius, not known to many, in which he, a prisoner and an
exile, had consoled himself. And hearing, moreover, that Tully
had written a book in which, treating of friendship, he had
introduced words of consolation for Laelius, a most excellent
man, on the death of Scipio his friend, I set myself to read
that. And although it was difficult for me at first to enter into
their meaning, I finally entered into it, so far as my knowledge
of Latin and a little of my own genius permitted; through
which genius I already, as if in a dream, saw many things, as
may be seen in the ( New Life. * And as it sometimes happens
that a man goes seeking silver, and beyond his expectation finds
gold, which a hidden occasion affords, not perchance without
Divine guidance, so I, who was seeking to console myself, found
not only relief for my tears, but the substance of authors, and of
knowledge, and of books; reflecting upon which, I came to the
conclusion that Philosophy, who was the Lady of these authors,
this knowledge, and these books, was a supreme thing. And I
imagined her as having the features of a gentle lady; and i
could not imagine her in any but a compassionate act; wherefore
my sense so willingly admired her in truth, that I could hardly
turn it from her. And after this imagination I began to go
there where she displayed herself truly, that is to say, to the
school of the religious, and to the disputations of the philoso-
phers, so that in a short time, perhaps in thirty months, I began
to feel so much of her sweetness that the love .of her chased
away and destroyed every other thought. w
<The Banquet,> ii. 13.
4357
ii
THE DESIRE OF THE SOUL
The supreme desire of everything, and that first given by
Nature, is to return to its source; and since God is the source of
our souls and Maker of them in his own likeness, as is written,
<( Let us make man in our image, after our likeness, w to him
this soul desires above all to return. And as a pilgrim, who
goes along a road on which he never was before, thinks every
house he sees afar off to be his inn, and not finding it so, directs
his trust to the next, and thus from house to house till he comes
to the inn, so our soul at once, on entering the new and untrav-
eled road of this life, turns her eyes to the goal of her supreme
good, and therefore whatever thing she sees which seems to have
in it some good, she believes to be that. And because her knowl-
edge at first is imperfect, not being experienced or instructed,
small goods seem to her great, therefore she begins with desiring
them. Wherefore we see children desire exceedingly an apple;
and then proceeding further, desire a little bird; and further still
a beautiful dress; and then a horse, and then a woman, and then
riches not great, and then greater, and then as great as can be.
And this happens because in none of these does she find that
which she is seeking, and she trusts to find it further on. . . .
Truly this way is lost by error as the roads of earth are; for
as from one city to another there is of necessity one best and
straightest way, and another that always leads away from it, that
is, one which goes in another direction, and many others, some
less diverging, and some approaching less near, so in human life
are divers roads, of which one is the truest, and another the
most deceitful, and certain ones less deceitful, and certain less
true. And as we see that that which goes straightest to the city
fulfills desire, and gives repose after weariness, and that which
goes contrary never fulfills it, and can never give repose, so it
falls out in our life: the good traveler arrives at the goal and
repose, the mistaken never arrives there, but with much weari-
ness of his mind always looks forward with greedy eyes.
<The Banquet,> iv. 12.
4358 DANTE
III
THE NOBLE SOUL AT THE END OF LIFE
The noble Soul in old age returns to God as to that port
whence she set forth on the sea of this life. And as the good
mariner, when he approaches port, furls his sails, and with slow
course gently enters it, so should we furl the sails of our worldly
affairs and turn to God with our whole mind and heart, so that
we may arrive at that port with all sweetness and peace. And
in regard to this we have from our own nature a great lesson of
sweetness, that in such a death as this there is no pain nor any
bitterness, but as a ripe fruit is easily and without violence de-
tached from its twig, so our soul without affliction is parted
from the body in which it has been. And just as to him who
comes from a long journey, before he enters into the gate of his
city, the citizens thereof go forth to meet him, so the citizens of
the eternal life come to meet the noble Soul; and they do so
through her good deeds and contemplations: for having now
rendered herself to God, and withdrawn herself from worldly
affairs and thoughts, she seems to see those whom she believes
to be nigh unto God. Hear what Tully says in the person of
the good Cato: — <(With ardent zeal I lifted myself up to see your
fathers whom I had loved, and not them only, but also those of
whom I had heard speak." The noble Soul then at this age
renders herself to God and awaits the end of life with great
desire; and it seems to her that 'she is leaving the inn and
returning to her own house, it seems to her that she is leaving
the road and returning to the city, it seems to her that she is
leaving the sea and returning to port. . . . And also the
noble Soul at this age blesses the past times; and well may she
bless them, because revolving them through her memory she
recalls her right deeds, without which she could not arrive with
such great riches or so great gain at the port to which she is
approaching. And she does like the good merchant, who when
he draws near his port, examines his getting, and says: <( Had
I not passed along such a way, I should not have this treasure,
nor have gained that which I may enjoy in my city to which I
am drawing near;w and therefore he blesses the way which he
has come.
<The Banquet, > iv. 28.
DANTE
4359
The selections from the <Divina Commedia> are from Professor Norton's
translation: copyrighted 1891 and 1892, and reprinted by permission
of Professor Norton and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Publish-
ers, Boston, Mass.
HELL
[Dante, astray in a wood, reaches the foot of a hill which he begins to
ascend; he is hindered by three beasts; he turns back and is met by Virgil,
who proposes to guide him into the eternal world.]
MIDWAY upon the road of our life I found myself within a
dark wood, for the right way had been missed. Ah! how
hard a thing it is to tell what this wild and rough and
dense wood was, which in thought renews the fear! So bitter is
it that death is little more. But in order to treat of the good
that I found, I will tell of the other things that I saw there. I
cannot well recount how I entered it, so full was I of slumber
at that point where I abandoned the true way. But after I had
arrived at the foot of a hill, where that valley ended which had
pierced my heart with fear, I looked on high and saw its
shoulders clothed already with the rays of the planet* that
leads men aright along every path. Then was the fear a little
quieted which in the lake of my heart had lasted through the
night that I passed so piteously. And even as one who, with
spent breath, issued out of the sea upon the shore, turns to the
perilous water and gazes, so did my soul, which still was flying,
turn back to look again upon the pass which never had a living
person left.
After I had rested a little my weary body, I took my way
again along the desert slope, so that the firm foot was always
the lower. And lo! almost at the beginning of the steep a she-
leopard, light and very nimble, which was covered with a spotted
coat. And she did not move from before my face, nay, rather
hindered so my road that to return I oftentimes had turned.
The time was at the beginning of the morning, and the Sun
was mounting upward with those stars that were with him when
Love Divine first set in motion those beautiful things ;f so that
*The sun, — a planet according to the Ptolemaic astronomy.
f It was a common belief that the spring was the season of the creation.
4360
DANTE
the hour of the time and the sweet season were occasion of good
hope to me concerning that wild beast with the dappled skin.
But not so that the sight which appeared to me of a lion did
not give me fear. He seemed to be coming against me, with
head high and with ravening hunger, so that it seemed that the
air was affrighted at him. And a she-wolf, who with all cravings
seemed laden in her meagreness, and already had made folk to
live forlorn, — she caused me so much heaviness, with the fear
that came from sight of her, that I lost hope of the height.*
And such as he is who gains willingly, and the time arrives that
makes him lose, who in all his thoughts weeps and is sad, — such
made me the beast without repose that, coming on against me,
little by little was pushing me back thither where the Sun is
silent.
While I was falling back to the low place, before mine eyes
appeared one who through long silence seemed faint-voiced.
When I saw him in the great desert, (< Have pity on me ! w I cried
to him, <( whatso thou art, or shade or real man." He answered
me : — <( Not man ; man once I was, and my parents were Lom-
bards, and Mantuans by country both. I was born sub Julio,
though late, and I lived at Rome under the good Augustus, in
the time of the false and lying gods. Poet was I, and sang of
that just son of Anchises who came from Troy after proud Ilion
had been burned. But thou, why returnest thou to so great
annoy ? Why dost thou not ascend the delectable mountain which
is the source and cause of every joy ? w <(Art thou then that
Virgil and that fount which poureth forth so large a stream of
speech ? w replied I to him with bashful front : (< O honor and
light of the other poets! may the long study avail me, and the
great love, which have made me search thy volume! Thou art
my master and my author; thou alone art he from whom I took
the fair style that has done me honor. Behold the beast because
of which I turned; help me against her, famous sage, for she
makes my veins and pulses tremble. w <(Thee it behoves to hold
another course, w he replied when he saw me weeping, (<if thou
wishest to escape from this savage place: for this beast, because
of which thou criest out, lets not any one pass along her way,
but so hinders him that she kills him; and she has a nature so
malign and evil that she never sates her greedy will, and after
* These three beasts typify the division of sins into those of incontinence,
of violence, and of fraud.
DANTE
4361
food is hungrier than before. Many are the animals with which
she wives, and there shall be more yet, till the hound shall
come that will make her die of grief. . . . He shall hunt
her through every town till he shall have set her back in hell,
there whence envy first sent her forth. Wherefore I think and
deem it for thy best that thou follow me, and I will be thy
guide and will lead thee hence through the eternal place where
thou shalt hear the despairing shrieks, shalt see the ancient
spirits woful who each proclaim the second death. And then
thou shalt see those who are contented in the fire, because they
hope to come, whenever it may be, to the blessed folk; to whom
if thou wilt thereafter ascend, there shall be a soul more worthy
than I for that. With her I will leave thee at my departure;
for that Emperor who reigneth thereabove, because I was rebel-
lious to his law, wills not that into his city any one should
come through me. In all parts he governs and there he reigns:
there is his city and his lofty seat. O happy he whom thereto
he elects ! * And I to him : — <( Poet, I beseech thee by that God
whom thou didst not know, in order that I may escape this ill
and worse, that thou lead me thither where thou now hast said,
so that I may see the gate of St. Peter, and those whom thou
makest so afflicted.*
Then he moved on, and I behind him kept.
CANTO II
THE ENTRANCE ON THE JOURNEY THROUGH THE ETERNAL WORLD,
CONTINUED
[Dante, doubtful of his own powers, is discouraged. Virgil cheers him by
telling him that he has been sent to his aid by a blessed Spirit from Heaven.
Dante casts off fear, and the poets proceed.]
THE day was going, and the dusky air was taking the living
things that are on earth from their fatigues, and I alone was
preparing to sustain the war alike of the road, and of the woe
which the mind that errs not shall retrace. O Muses, O lofty
genius, now assist me ! O mind that didst inscribe that which I
saw, here shall thy nobility appear! I began:—
(< Poet, that guidest me, consider my virtue, if it be sufficient,
ere to the deep pass thou trustest me. Thou sayest that the
parent of Silvius while still corruptible went to the immortal
4362
DANTE
world and was there in the body. Wherefore if the Adversary
of every ill was then courteous, thinking on the high effect that
should proceed from him, and on the Who and the What,* it
seemeth not unmeet to a man of understanding; for in the
empyreal heaven he had been chosen for father of revered Rome
and of her empire; both which (to say truth indeed) were
ordained for the holy place where the successor of the greater
Peter has his seat. Through this going, whereof thou givest
him vaunt, he learned things which were the cause of his victory
and of the papal mantle. Afterward the Chosen Vessel went
thither to bring thence comfort to that faith which is the begin-
ning of the way of salvation. But I, why go I thither ? or who
concedes it ? I am not ^Eneas, I am not Paul ; me worthy of
this, neither I nor others think; wherefore if I give myself up
to go, I fear lest the going may be mad. Thou art wise, thou
understandest better than I speak. w
And as is he who unwills what he willed, and because of new
thoughts changes his design, so that he quite withdraws from
beginning, such I became on that dark hillside; wherefore in my
thought I abandoned the enterprise which had been so hasty in
its beginning.
(< If I have rightly understood thy speech, M replied that shade
of the magnanimous one, (<thy soul is hurt by cowardice, which
oftentimes encumbers a man so that it turns him back from hon-
orable enterprise, as false seeing doth a beast when it is startled.
In order that thou loose thee from this fear I will tell thee
wherefore I have come, and what I heard at the first moment
that I grieved for thee. I was among those who are suspended,!
and a Lady called me, so blessed and beautiful that I besought
her to command. Her eyes were more lucent than the star, and
she began to speak to me sweet and low, with angelic voice,
in her own tongue : — ( O courteous Mantuan soul ! of whom the
fame yet lasts in the world, and shall last so long as the world
endures, a friend of mine and not of fortune is upon the desert
hillside, so hindered on his road that he has turned for fear; and I
am afraid, through that which I have heard of him in heaven, lest
he already be so astray that I may have risen late to his succor.
Now do thou move, and with thy speech ornate, and with what-
ever is needful for his deliverance, assist him so that I may be
*Who lie was and What should result,
f In Limbo, neither in hell nor in heaven.
DANTE 4363
consoled for him. I am Beatrice who make thee go. I come from
a place whither I desire to return. Love moved me, and makes
me speak. When I shall be before my Lord, I will commend
thee often to him.* Then she was silent, and thereon I began:—
(O Lady of Virtue, thou alone through whom the human race
surpasses all contained within that heaven which has the smallest
circles!* so pleasing unto me is thy command that to obey it,
were it already done, were slow to me. Thou hast no need fur-
ther to open unto me thy will; but tell me the cause why thou
guardest not thyself from descending down here into this centre,
from the ample place whither thou burnest to return. * < Since
thou wishest to know so inwardly, I will tell thee briefly, J she
replied to me, ( wherefore I am not afraid to come here within.
One ought to be afraid of those things only that have power to
do another harm; of other things not, for they are not fearful.
I am made by God, thanks be to him, such that your misery
touches me not, nor does the flame of this burning assail me. A
gentle Lady is in heaven who hath pity for this hindrance where-
to I send thee, so that stern judgment there above she breaks.
She summoned Lucia in her request, and said, <( Thy faithful one
now hath need of thee, and unto thee I commend him." Lucia,f
the foe of every cruel one, rose and came to the place where I
was, seated with the ancient Rachael. She said : — (< Beatrice, true
praise of God, why dost thou not succor him who so loved thee
that for thee he came forth from the vulgar throng ? Dost thou
not hear the pity of his plaint ? Dost thou not see the death
that combats him beside the stream whereof the sea hath no
vaunt ? }> In the world never were persons swift to seek their
good, and to fly their harm, as I, after these words were uttered,
came here below, from my blessed seat, putting my trust in thy
upright speech, which honors thee and them who have heard it.'
After she had said this to me, weeping she turned her lucent
eyes, whereby she made me more speedy in coming. And I
came to thee as she willed. Thee have I delivered from that wild
beast that took from thee the short ascent of the beautiful mount-
ain. What is it then ? Why, why dost thou hold back ? why dost
thou harbor such cowardice in thy heart ? why hast thou not dar-
ing and boldness, since three blessed Ladies care for thee in the
court of Heaven, and my speech pledges thee such good ? "
*The heaven of the Moon, the nearest to Earth of the nine concentric
Heavens.
fThe type of illuminating grace.
43^4
DANTE
As flowerets, bent and closed by the chill of night, after the
sun shines on them straighten themselves all open on their stem,
so my weak virtue became, and such good daring hastened to
my heart that I began like one enfranchised : — (< O compassionate
she who succored! and thou courteous who didst speedily obey
the true words that she addressed to thee! Thou by thy words
hast so disposed my heart with desire of going, that I have
returned unto my first intent. Go on now, for one sole will is
in us both: thou leader, thou Lord, and thou Master. M Thus I
said to him; and when he had moved on, I entered along the
deep and savage road.
CANTO v
THE PUNISHMENT OF CARNAL SINNERS
[The Second Circle, that of Carnal Sinners. — Minos. — Shades renowned of
old. — Francesca da Rimini.]
THUS I descended from the first circle down into the second,
which girdles less space, and so much more woe that it goads to
wailing. There abides Minos horribly, and snarls; he examines
the sins at the entrance; he judges, and he sends according as
he entwines himself. I mean that when the miscreant spirit
comes there before him, it confesses itself wholly, and that dis-
cerner of sins sees what place of Hell is for it; he girdles him-
self with his tail so many times as the degrees he wills it should
be sent down. Always before him stand many of them. They
go, in turn, each to the judgment; they speak, and hear, and
then are whirled below.
<(O thou that comest to the woful inn," said Minos to me,
when he saw me, leaving the act of so great an office, "beware
how thou enterest, and to whom thou intrustest thyself; let not
the amplitude of the entrance deceive thee." And my Leader to
him, (< Why then dost thou cry out ? Hinder not his fated going;
thus is it willed there where is power to do that which is willed;
and ask thou no more."
Now the woful notes begin to make themselves heard; now
am I come where much lamentation smites me. I had come into
a place mute of all light, that bellows as the sea does in a
tempest, if it be combated by opposing winds. The infernal
hurricane that never rests carries along the spirits with its rapine ;
whirling and smiting it molests them. When they arrive before
its rushing blast, here are shrieks, and bewailing, and lamenting;
DANTE
4365
here they blaspheme the power Divine. I understood that to
such torment are condemned the carnal sinners who subject
reason unto lust. And as their wings bear along the starlings in
the cold season in a troop large and full, so that blast the evil
spirits; hither, thither, down, up, it carries them; no hope ever
comforts them, not of repose, but even of less pain.
And as the cranes go singing their lays, making in air a long
line of themselves, so saw I come, uttering wails, shades borne
along by the aforesaid strife. Wherefore I said, (< Master, who
are those folk whom the black air so castigates ? w (< The first
of these of whom thou wishest to have knowledge, w said he to
me then, <( was empress of many tongues. To the vice of luxury
was she so abandoned that lust she made licit in her law, to
take away the blame she had incurred. She is Semiramis, of
whom it is read that she succeeded Ninus and had been his
spouse; she held the land which the Soldan rules. The other is
she who, for love, slew herself and broke faith to the ashes of
Sichaeus. Next is Cleopatra, the luxurious. See Helen, for whom
so long a time of ill revolved; and see the great Achilles, who
at the end fought with love. See Paris, Tristan — w and more
than a thousand shades he showed me with his finger, and named
them whom love had parted from our life.
After I had heard my Teacher name the dames of eld and
the cavaliers, pity overcame me, and I was well-nigh bewildered.
I began, <( Poet, willingly would I speak with those two that go
together, and seem to be so light upon the wind." And he to
me, <( Thou shalt see when they shall be nearer to us, and do
thou then pray them by that love which leads them, and they
will come. }> Soon as the wind sways them toward us I lifted my
voice : (( O weary souls, come speak to us, if One forbid it not. *
As doves, called by desire, with wings open and steady, fly
through the air to their sweet nest, borne by their will, these
issued from the troop where Dido is, coming to us through the
malign air, so strong was the compassionate cry: —
<(O living creature, gracious and benign, that goest through
the lurid air visiting us who stained the world blood-red, — if the
King of the universe were a friend we would pray him for thy
peace, since thou hast pity on our perverse ill. Of what it
pleases thee to hear, and what to speak, we will hear and we
will speak to you, while the wind, as now, is hushed for us.
The city where I was born sits upon the sea-shore, where the
4366
DANTE
Po, with his followers, descends to have peace. Love, that on
gentle heart quickly lays hold, seized him for the fair person
that was taken from me, and the mode still hurts me. Love,
which absolves no loved one from loving, seized me for the
pleasing of him so strongly that, as thou seest, it does not even
now abandon me. Love brought us to one death. Caina waits
him who quenched our life." These words were borne to us
from them.
Soon as I had heard those injured souls I bowed my face,
and held it down, until the Poet said to me, "What art thou
thinking ? w When I replied, I began : — <( Alas ! how many sweet
thoughts, how great desire, led these unto the woful pass. "
Then I turned me again to them, and I spoke, and began,
w Francesca, thy torments make me sad and piteous to weeping.
But tell me, at the time of the sweet sighs by what and how
did love concede to you to know the dubious desires ? w And
she to me, w There is no greater woe than in misery to remem-
ber the happy time, and that thy Teacher knows. But if to
know the first root of our love thou hast so great a longing, I
will do like one who weeps and tells.
MWe were reading one day, for delight, of Lancelot, how
love constrained him. We were alone and without any suspicion.
Many times that reading made us lift our eyes, and took the
color from our faces, but only one point was that which over-
came us. When we read of the longed-for smile being kissed
by such a lover, this one, who never from me shall be divided,
kissed my mouth all trembling. Galahaut* was the book, and
he who wrote it. That day we read in it no farther. w
While one spirit said this, the other was weeping so that
through pity I swooned as if I had been dying, and fell as a
dead body falls.
* It was Galahaut who, in the Romance, prevailed on Guinevere to give a
kiss to Lancelot.
DANTE 4367
PURGATORY
CANTO XXVII
THE FINAL PURGATION
[Seventh Ledge: the Lustful. — Passage through the flames. — Stairway in
the rock. — Night upon the stairs. — Dream of Dante. — Morning. — Ascent to
the Earthly Paradise.— Last words of Virgil.]
As WHEN he darts forth his first rays there where his Maker
shed his blood (Ebro falling under the lofty Scales, and
the waves in the Ganges scorched by noon), so the sun
was now standing; so that the day was departing, when the glad
Angel of God appeared to us.* Outside the flame he was stand-
ing on the bank, and was singing (( Beati mundo corde w
[Blessed are the pure in heart], in a voice far more living than
ours : then, (< No one goes further, ye holy souls, if first the fire
sting not; enter into it, and to the song beyond be ye not deaf, w
he said to us, when we were near him. Whereat I became
such, when I heard him, as is he who in the pit is put.f With
hands clasped upwards, I stretched forward, looking at the fire,
and imagining vividly human bodies I had once seen burnt.
The good Escorts turned toward me, and Virgil said to me,
(< My son, here may be torment, but not death. Bethink thee !
bethink thee! and if I even upon Geryon guided thee safe, what
shall I do now that I am nearer God ? Believe for certain that
if within the belly of this flame thou shouldst stand full a thou-
sand years, it could not make thee bald of one hair. And if
thou perchance believest that I deceive thee, draw near to it,
and make trial for thyself with thine own hands on the hem of
thy garments. Put aside now, put aside every fear; turn hither-
ward, and come on secure. w
And I still motionless and against conscience!
When he saw me still stand motionless and obdurate, he said,
disturbed a little, <( Now see, son, between Beatrice and thee is
this wall.*
As at the name of Thisbe, Pyramus, at point of death,
opened his eyelids and looked at her, what time the mulberry
*When it is sunrise at Jerusalem it is midnight in Spain, midday at the
Ganges, and sunset in Purgatory.
fTo be buried alive.
4368
DANTE
became vermilion, so, my obduracy becoming softened, I turned
me to the wise Leader, hearing the name that in my memory is
ever welling up. Whereat he nodded his head, and said, <( How !
do we want to stay on this side ? * Then he smiled as one doth
at a child who is conquered by an apple.
Then within the fire he set himself before me, praying Sta-
tius that he would come behind, who previously, on the long
road, had divided us. When I was in, into boiling glass I would
have thrown myself to cool me, so without measure was the
burning there. My sweet Father, to encourage me, went talking
ever of Beatrice, saying, (< I seem already to see her eyes.M
A voice was guiding us, which was singing on the other side,
and we, ever attentive to it, came forth there where was the
ascent. w Venite, benedicti Patris mei * [Come, ye blessed of my
Father], sounded within a light that was there such that it over-
came me, and I could not look on it. (< The sun departs, w it
added, "and the evening comes; tarry not, but hasten your
steps so long as the west grows not dark."
The way mounted straight, through the rock, in such direc-
tion that I cut off in front of me the rays of the sun which was
already low. And of few stairs had we made essay ere, by the
vanishing of the shadow, both I and my Sages perceived behind
us the setting of the sun. And before the horizon in all its
immense regions had become of one aspect, and night had all
her dispensations, each of us made of a stair his bed; for the
nature of the mountain took from us the power more than the
delight of ascending.
As goats, who have been swift and wayward on the peaks ere
they are fed, become tranquil as they ruminate, silent in the
shade while the sun is hot, watched by the herdsman, who on
his staff is leaning and leaning guards them; and as the shep-
herd, who lodges out of doors, passes the night beside his quiet
flock, watching that the wild beast may not scatter it: such were
we all three then, I like a goat, and they like shepherds, hemmed
in on this side and on that by the high rock. Little of the out-
side could there appear, but through that little I saw the stars
both brighter and larger than their wont. Thus ruminating, and
thus gazing upon them, sleep overcame me, sleep which oft
before a deed be done knows news thereof.
At the hour, I think, when from the east on the mountain first
beamed Cytherea, who with fire of love seems always burning,
DANTE
4369
I seemed in dream to see a lady, young and beautiful, going
through a meadow gathering flowers, and singing; she was saying,
<( Let him know, whoso asks my name, that I am Leah, and I go
moving my fair hands around to make myself a garland. To
please me at the glass here I adorn me, but my sister Rachel
never withdraws from her mirror, and sits all day. She is as fain
to look with her fair eyes as I to adorn me with my hands. Her
seeing, and me doing, satisfies. w *
And now before the splendors which precede the dawn, and
rise the more grateful unto pilgrims as in returning they lodge
less remote,! the shadows fled away on every side, and my sleep
with them; whereupon I rose, seeing my great Masters already
risen. "That pleasant apple which through so many branches
the care of mortals goes seeking, to-day shall put in peace thy
hungerings. }> Virgil used words such as these toward me, and
never were there gifts which could be equal in pleasure to these.
Such wish upon wish came to me to be above, that at every
step thereafter I felt the feathers growing for my flight.
When beneath us all the stairway had been run, and we were
on the topmost step, Virgil fixed his eyes on me, and said, <(The
temporal fire and the eternal thou hast seen, son, and art come
to a place where of myself no further onward I discern. I have
brought thee here with understanding and with art: thine own
pleasure now take thou for guide; forth art thou from the steep
ways, forth art thou from the narrow. See there the sun, which
on thy front doth shine; see the young grass, the flowers, the
shrubs, which here the earth of itself alone produces. Until
rejoicing come the beautiful eyes which weeping made me come
to thee, thou canst sit down and thou canst go among them.
Expect no more or word or sign from me. Free, upright, and
sane is thine own free will, and it would be wrong not to act
according to its pleasure; wherefore thee over thyself I crown
and mitre.8
*Leah and Rachel are respectively the types of the virtuous active and
contemplative life.
f As they come nearer home,
vni — 274
4370 DANTE
CANTOS XXX AND XXXI
THE MEETING WITH His LADY IN THE EARTHLY PARADISE
[Beatrice appears. — Departure of Virgil. — Reproof of Dante by Beatrice. —
Confession of Dante. — Passage of Lethe. — Unveiling of Beatrice.]
WHEN the septentrion of the first heaven,* which never set-
ting knew, nor rising, nor veil of other cloud than sin, — and
which was making every one there acquainted with his duty, as
the lower f makes whoever turns the helm to come to port, —
stopped still, the truthful people who had come first between the
griffon and it, turned to the chariot as to their peace, and one of
them, as if sent from heaven, singing, cried thrice, <{Veni,
sponsa, de Libanow [Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse],
and all the others after.
As the blessed at the last trump will arise swiftly, each from
his tomb, singing Hallelujah with recovered voice, so upon the
divine chariot, ad vocem tanti senis [at the voice of so great an
elder], rose up a hundred ministers and messengers of life eter-
nal. All were saying, <( Benedictus, qui venis w [Blessed thou
that comest], and, scattering flowers above and around, <( Mani-
bus o date lilia plenis w [Oh, give lilies with full hands]. J
I have seen ere now at the beginning of the day the eastern
region all rosy, while the rest of the heaven was beautiful with
fair clear sky; and the face of the sun rise shaded, so that
through the tempering of vapors the eye sustained it a long
while. Thus within a cloud of flowers, which from the angelic
hands was ascending, and falling down again within and without,
a lady, with olive wreath above a white veil, appeared to me,
robed with the color of living flame beneath a green mantle. §
And my spirit that now for so long a time had not been bro-
ken down, trembling with amazement at her presence, without
* In the preceding canto a mystic procession, symbolizing the Old and
New Dispensation, has appeared in the Earthly Paradise. At its head were
seven candlesticks, symbols of the sevenfold spirit of the Lord; it was fol-
lowed by personages representing the truthful books of the Old Testament,
and these by the chariot of the Church drawn by a griffon, who in his double
form, half eagle and half lion, represented Christ in his double nature, human
and divine.
f The lower septentrion, the seven stars of the Great Bear.
\ Words from the ^Eneid (vi. 884), sung by the angels.
§ The olive is the symbol of wisdom and of peace ; the three colors are
those of Faith, Charity and Hope.
DANTE 437I
having more knowledge by the eyes, through occult virtue that
proceeded from her, felt the great potency of ancient love.
Soon as upon my sight the lofty virtue smote, which already
had transfixed me ere I was out of boyhood, I turned me to the
left with the confidence with which the little child runs to his
mother when he is frightened, or when he is troubled, to say to
Virgil, ft Less than a drachm of blood remains in me that doth
not tremble; I recognize the signals of the ancient flame,"* —
but Virgil had left us deprived of himself; Virgil, sweetest
Father, Virgil, to whom I for my salvation gave me. Nor did
all which the ancient mother lostf avail unto my cheeks, cleansed
with dew, J that they should not turn dark again with tears.
<( Dante, though Virgil be gone away, weep not yet, for it
behoves thee to weep by another sword. w
Like an admiral who, on poop or on prow, comes to see the
people that are serving on the other ships, and encourages them
to do well, upon the left border of the chariot — when I turned
me at the sound of my own name, which of necessity is regis-
tered here — I saw the Lady, who had first appeared to me
veiled beneath the angelic festival, directing her eyes toward
me across the stream; although the veil which descended from
her head, circled by the leaf of Minerva, did not allow her to
appear distinctly. Royally, still haughty in her mien, she went
on, as one who speaks and keeps back his warmest speech:
<( Look at me well : I am indeed, I am indeed Beatrice. How
hast thou deigned to approach the mountain ? Didst thou know
that man is happy here ? w My eyes fell down into the clear
fount; but seeing myself in it I drew them to the grass, such
great shame burdened my brow. As to the son the mother
seems proud, so she seemed to me; for somewhat bitter tasteth
the savor of stern pity.
She was silent, and the angels sang of a sudden, (<In te,
Domine, speravi w [In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust] ; § but
beyond (< pedes meos M [my feet] they did not pass. Even as
the snow, among the living rafters upon the back of Italy, is
congealed, blown, and packed by Slavonian winds, then melting
* Words from the ^Eneid, iv. 23.
f All the joy and beauty of Paradise which Eve lost, and which were now
surrounding Dante.
$ When he had entered Purgatory.
§The words are from Psalm xxxi., verses i to 8.
4372
DANTE
trickles through itself, if only the land that loses shadow* breathe
so that it seems a fire that melts the candle: so was I without
tears and sighs before the song of those who time their notes
after the notes of the eternal circles. But when I heard in
their sweet accords their compassion for me, more than if they
had said, (< Lady, why dost thou so confound him ? w the ice that
was bound tight around my heart became breath and water, and
with anguish poured from my breast through my mouth and eyes.
She, still standing motionless on the aforesaid side of the
chariot, then turned her words to those pious f beings thus : — <( Ye
watch in the eternal day, so that nor night nor slumber robs
from you one step the world may make along its ways; wherefore
my reply is with greater care, that he who is weeping yonder
may understand me, so that fault and grief may be of one
measure. Not only through the working of the great wheels, J
which direct every seed to some end according as the stars are
its companions, but through largess of divine graces, which have
for their rain vapors so lofty that our sight goes not near
thereto, — this man was such in his new life, virtually, that every
right habit would have made admirable proof in him. But so
much the more malign and more savage becomes the land ill-
sown and untilled, as it has more of good terrestrial vigor.
Some time did I sustain him with my face; showing my youth-
ful eyes to him, I led him with me turned in right direction.
So soon as I was upon the threshold of my second age, and had
changed life, this one took himself from me, and gave himself
to others. When from flesh to spirit I had ascended, and beauty
and virtue were increased in me, I was less dear and less pleas-
ing to him; and he turned his steps along a way not true,
following false images of good, which pay no promise in full.
Nor did it avail me to win by entreaty § inspirations with which,
both in dream and otherwise, I called him back; so little did he
heed them. So low he fell that all means for his salvation were
already short, save showing him the lost people. || For this I
visited the gate of the dead, and to him, who has conducted
him up hither, my prayers were borne with weeping. The high
* If the wind blow from Africa.
fBoth devout and piteous.
\ Through the influences of the circling heavens.
§ From divine grace.
| In Hell.
4373
decree of God would be broken, if Lethe should be passed, and
such viands should be tasted without any scot of repentance
which may pour forth tears.
(< O thou who art on the further side of the sacred river, }>
turning her speech with the point to me, which only by the
edge had seemed to me keen, she began anew, going on with-
out delay, (< say, say if this be true : to so great an accusation it
behoves that thine own confession be conjoined. w My power
was so confused that my voice moved, and became extinct be-
fore it could be released by its organs. A little she bore it;
then she said, <( What thinkest thou ? Reply to me ; for the sad
memories in thee are not yet injured by the water. w* Confusion
and fear together mingled forced such a (< Yes w from my mouth
that the eyes were needed for the understanding of it.
As a crossbow breaks its cord and its bow when it shoots
with too great tension, and with less force the shaft hits the
mark, so did I burst under that heavy load, pouring forth tears
and sighs, and the voice slackened along its passage. Where-
upon she to me : — (< Within those desires of mine f that were
leading thee to love the Good beyond which there is nothing
whereto man may aspire, what trenches running traverse, or
what chains didst thou find, for which thou wert obliged thus
to abandon the hope of passing onward ? And what entice-
ments, or what advantages on the brow of the others J were dis-
played, for which thou wert obliged to court them ? w After the
drawing of a bitter sigh, hardly had I the voice that answered,
and the lips with difficulty gave it form. Weeping, I said, (<The
present things with their false pleasure turned my steps soon as
your face was hidden.* And she: — (< Hadst thou been silent, or
hadst thou denied that which thou dost confess, thy fault would
be not less noted, by such a Judge is it known. But when
the accusation of the sin bursts from one's own cheek, in our
court the wheel turns itself back against the edge. But yet,
that thou mayst now bear shame for thy error, and that another
time, hearing the Sirens, thou mayst be stronger, lay aside the
seed of weeping and listen; so shalt thou hear how in opposite
direction my buried flesh ought to have moved thee. Never
did nature or art present to thee pleasure such as the fair limbs
*Not yet obliterated by the waters of Lethe.
f Inspired by me.
\ Other objects of desire.
4374
DANTE
wherein I was inclosed; and they are scattered in earth. And
if the supreme pleasure thus failed thee through my death, what
mortal things ought then to have drawn thee into its desire ?
Forsooth thou oughtest, at the first arrow of things deceitful, to
have risen up, following me who was no longer such. Nor
should thy wings have weighed thee downward to await more
blows, either girl or other vanity of so brief a' use. The young
little bird awaits two or three; but before the eyes of the full-
fledged the net is spread in vain, the arrow shot.."
As children, ashamed, dumb, with eyes upon the ground,
stand listening and conscience-stricken and repentant, so was I
standing. And she said, <( Since through hearing thou art grieved,
lift up thy beard and thou shalt receive more grief in seeing. *
With less resistance is a sturdy oak uprooted by a native wind,
or by one from the land of larbas,* than I raised up my chin at
her command; and when by the beard she asked for my eyes,
truly I recognized the venom of the argument, f And as my
face stretched upward, my sight perceived that those primal
creatures were resting from their strewing, and my eyes, still
little assured, saw Beatrice turned toward the animal that is only
one person in two natures. Beneath her veil and beyond the
stream she seemed to me more to surpass her ancient self, than
she surpassed the others here when she was here. So pricked
me there the nettle of repentance, that of all other things the
one which most turned me aside unto its love became most
hostile to me. I
Such contrition stung my heart that I fell overcome; and
what I then became she knows who afforded me the cause.
Then, when my heart restored my outward faculties, I saw
above me the lady whom I had found alone, § and she was saying,
<( Hold me, hold me. w She had drawn me into the stream up to
the throat, and dragging me behind was moving upon the water
light as a shuttle. When I was near the blessed shore, <(Asper-
ges me " | I heard so sweetly that I cannot remember it, far less
* Numidia, of which larbas was king.
f The beard being the sign of manhood, which should be accompanied by
wisdom.
\ The one which by its attractions most diverted me from Beatrice.
§A solitary lady whom he had met on first entering the Earthly Paradise,
and who had accompanied him thus far.
I The first words of the 7th verse of the sist Psalm: « Purge me with hyssop,
and I shall be clean ; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. »
DANTE
4375
can write it. The beautiful lady opened her arms, clasped my
head, and plunged me in where it behoved that I should swallow
the water. Then she took me, and, thus bathed, brought me
within the dance of the four beautiful ones,* and each of them
covered me with her arm. <( Here we are nymphs, and in heaven
we are stars; ere Beatrice had descended to the world we were
ordained unto her for her handmaids. We will lead thee to her
eyes; but in the joyous light which is within them, the three
yonder f who deeper gaze shall make keen thine own.0 Thus
singing they began; and then to the breast of the griffon they
led me with them, where Beatrice was standing turned toward
us. They said, (< See that thou sparest not thy sight : we have
placed thee before the emeralds whence Love of old drew his
arrows upon thee.* A thousand desires hotter than flame bound
my eyes to the relucent eyes which only upon the griffon were
standing fixed. As the sun in a mirror, not otherwise, the two-
fold animal was gleaming therewithin, now with one, now with
another mode.J Think, Reader, if I marveled when I saw the
thing stand quiet in itself, while in its image it was transmuting
itself.
While, full of amazement and glad, my soul was tasting that
food which, sating of itself, causes hunger for itself, the other
three, showing themselves in their bearing of loftier order, came
forward dancing to their angelic melody. (< Turn, Beatrice, turn
thy holy eyes, w was their song, <( upon thy faithful one, who to
see thee has taken so many steps. For grace do us the grace
that thou unveil to him thy mouth, so that he may discern the
second beauty which thou concealest. M
O splendor of living light eternal! Who hath become so
pallid under the shadow of Parnassus, or hath so drunk at its
cistern, that he would not seem to have his mind incumbered,
trying to represent thee as thou didst appear there where in
harmony the heaven overshadows thee, when in the open air thou
didst thyself disclose ?
* The four cardinal virtues.
f The three evangelic virtues.
$ Now with the divine, now with the human.
4376 DANTE
PARADISE
CANTO XXXIII
THE BEATIFIC VISION
[Dante, having been brought by Beatrice to Paradise in the Empyrean, is
left by her in charge of St. Bernard, while she takes her place among the
blessed. — Prayer of St. Bernard to the Virgin. — Her intercession. — The vision
of God. — The end of desire.]
« 1 VIRGIN MOTHER, daughter of thine own Son, humble and
V exalted more than any creature, fixed term of the eternal
counsel, thou art she who didst so ennoble human nature
that its own Maker disdained not to become His own making.
Within thy womb was rekindled the love through whose warmth
this flower has thus blossomed in the eternal peace. Here thou
art to us the noonday torch of charity, and below, among mor-
tals, thou art the living fount of hope. Lady, thou art so great,
and so availest, that whoso wishes grace, and has not recourse
to thee, wishes his desire to fly without wings. Thy benignity
not only succors him who asks, but oftentimes freely foreruns
the asking. In thee mercy, in thee pity, in thee magnificence,
in thee whatever of goodness is in any creature, are united.
Now doth this man, who, from the lowest abyss of the universe,
far even as here, has seen one by one the lives of spirits, sup-
plicate thee, through grace, for virtue such that he may be able
with his eyes to uplift himself higher toward the Ultimate Salva-
tion. And I, who never for my own vision burned more than I
do for his, proffer to thee all my prayers, and pray that they be
not scant, that with thy prayers thou wouldst dissipate for him
every cloud of his mortality, so that the Supreme Pleasure may
be displayed to him. Further I pray thee, Queen, who canst
what so thou wilt, that, after so great a vision, thou wouldst
preserve his affections sound. May thy guardianship vanquish
human impulses. Behold Beatrice with all the blessed for my
prayers clasp their hands to thee.8
The eyes beloved and revered by God, fixed on the speaker,
showed to us how pleasing unto her are devout prayers. Then
to the Eternal Light were they directed, on which it is not to be
believed that eye so clear is turned by any creature.
And I, who to the end of all desires was approaching, even
as I ought, ended within myself the ardor of my longings.
DANTE 437?
Bernard was beckoning to me, and was smiling, that I should
look upward; but I was already, of my own accord, such as he
wished; for my sight, becoming pure, was entering more and
more through the radiance of the lofty Light which of itself is
true.*
Thenceforward my vision was greater than our speech, which
yields to such a sight, and the memory yields to such excess.
As is he who dreaming sees, and after the dream the passion
remains imprinted, and the rest returns not to the mind, such
am I; for my vision almost wholly fails, while the sweetness
that was born of it yet distills within my heart. Thus the snow
is by the sun unsealed; thus on the wind, in the light leaves,
was lost the saying of the Sibyl.
0 Supreme Light, that so high upliftest Thyself from mortal
conceptions, re-lend a little to my mind of what Thou didst
appear, and make my tongue so powerful that it may be able to
leave one single spark of Thy glory for the future people; for
by returning somewhat to my memory and by sounding a little
in these verses, more of Thy victory shall be conceived.
1 think that by the keenness of the living ray which I en-
dured, I should have been dazzled if my eyes had been averted
from it. And it comes to my mind that for this reason I was
the more hardy to sustain so much, that I joined my look unto
the Infinite Goodness.
O abundant Grace, whereby I presumed to fix my eyes
through the Eternal Light so far that there I consummated my
vision !
In its depth I saw that whatsoever is dispersed through the
universe is there included, bound with love in one volume; sub-
stance and accidents and their modes, fused together, as it were,
in such wise, that that of which I speak is one simple Light.
The universal form of this knotf I believe that I saw, because
in saying this I feel that I more abundantly rejoice. One
instant only is greater oblivion for me than five-and-twenty cen-
turies to the emprise which made Neptune wonder at the shadow
of Argo. J
* Light in its essence ; all other light is derived from it.
t This union of substance and accident.
| So overwhelming was the vision that the memory could not retain it
completely even for an instant.
DANTE
Thus my mind, wholly rapt, was gazing fixed, motionless,
and intent, and ever with gazing grew enkindled. In that Light
one becomes such that it is impossible he should ever consent to
turn himself from it for other sight; because the Good which is
the object of the will is all collected in it, and outside of it that
is defective which is perfect there.
Now will my speech be shorter even in respect to that which
I remember, than an infant's who still bathes his tongue at the
breast. Not because more than one simple semblance was in the
Living Light wherein I was gazing, which is always such as it
was before; but through my sight, which was growing strong in
me as I looked, one sole appearance, as I myself changed, was
altering itself to me.
Within the profound and clear subsistence of the lofty Light
appeared to me three circles of three colors and of one dimen-
sion; and one appeared reflected by the other, as Iris by Iris,
and the third appeared fire which from the one and from the
other is equally breathed forth.
O how short is the telling, and how feeble toward my con-
ception! and this toward what I saw is such that it suffices not
to call it little.
O Light Eternal, that sole dwellest in Thyself, sole under-
standest Thyself, and, by Thyself understood and understanding,
lovest and smilest on Thyself! That circle, which, thus con-
ceived, appeared in Thee as a reflected light, being somewhile
regarded by my eyes, seemed to me depicted within itself, of its
own very color, by our effigy, wherefore my sight was wholly
set upon it. As is the geometer ,who wholly applies himself to
measure the circle, and finds not by thinking that principle of
which he is in need, such was I at that new sight. I wished to
see how the image accorded with the circle, and how it has its
place therein; but my own wings were not for this, had it not
been that my mind was smitten by a flash in which its wish
came.*
To my high fantasy here power failed; but now my desire
and my will, like a wheel which evenly is moved, the Love was
turning which moves the Sun and the other stars, f
*The wish to see the mystery of the union of the two natures, the divine
and human in Christ.
fThat Love which makes sun and stars revolve was giving a concordant
revolution to my desire and my will.
4379
JAMES DARMESTETER
(1849-1894)
GOOD example of the latter-day enlightened savant is the
French Jew, James Darmesteter, whose premature death
robbed the modern world of scholarship of one of its most
distinguished figures. Scholars who do noble service in adding to
the sum total of human knowledge often are specialists, the nature
of whose work excludes them from general interest and appreciation.
It was not so with this man, — not alone an Oriental philologist of
more than national repute, but a broadly cultured, original mind, an
enlightened spirit, and a master of literary expression. Darmesteter
calls for recognition as a maker of literature as well as a scientist.
The son of a humble Jewish bookbinder, subjected to the disad-
vantages and hardships of poverty, James Darmesteter was born at
Chateau-Salins in Lorraine in 1849, but got his education in Paris,
early imbibing the Jewish traditions, familiar from youth with the
Bible and the Talmud. At the public school, whence he was gradu-
ated at eighteen, he showed his remarkable intellectual powers and
attracted the attention of scholars like Breal and Burnouf, who, not-
ing his aptitude for languages, advised devotion to Oriental linguis-
tics. After several years of uncertainty, years spent with books
and in travel, and in the desultory production of poetry and fiction,
philological study was undertaken as his life work, with remarkable
results. For twenty years he labored in this field, and his appoint-
ment in 1882 to succeed Renan as Secretary of the Asiatic Society of
France speaks volumes for the position he won. In 1885 he became
professor of Iranian languages and literature in the College of France.
Other scholastic ho'nors fell to him in due course and good measure.
As a scholar Darmesteter's most important labors were the expo-
sition of Zoroastrianism, the national faith of ancient Persia, which
he made a specialty; and his French translation of and commentary
on the Avesta, the Bible of that religion. As an interpreter of Zoro-
aster he sought to unite synthetically two opposing modern schools:
that which relied solely upon native traditions, and that which, re-
garding these as untrustworthy, drew its conclusions from an exam-
ination of the text, supplemented by the aid of Sanskrit on the side
of language and of the Vedas on the side of religion. Darmesteter's
work was thus boldly comprehensive. He found in the Avesta the
influence of such discordant elements as the Bible, Buddha, and
JAMES DARMESTETER
Greek philosophy, and believed that in its present form it was com-
posed at a 'later time than has been supposed. These technical ques-
tions are still mooted points with the critics. The translation of the
Avesta will perhaps stand as his greatest achievement. A herculean
labor of four years, it was rewarded by the Academy of Inscriptions
and Belles-Lettres with the 2o,ooo-franc prize given but once in a
decade for the work which, in the Academy's opinion, had best
served or brought most honor to the country.
But the technical accomplishments of learning represent but a
fragment of Darmesteter's amazing mental activity. He wrote a
striking book on the Mahdi, the tenacious belief in the Mohammedan
Messiah taking hold on his imagination. He was versed in English
literature, edited Shakespeare, and introduced his countrymen to
Browning. While in Afghanistan on a philological mission he gath-
ered, merely as a side pursuit, a unique collection of Afghan folk-
songs, and the result was a fascinating and valuable paper in a new
field. He helped to found a leading French review. Articles of
travel, critiques on subjects political, religious, literary, and social, fell
fast from his pen. In his general essays on these broader, more vital
aspects of thought and life, he is an artist in literary expression, a
writer with a distinct and great gift for form. Here his vigorous
mind, ample training, his humanistic tastes and humanitarian aspira-
tions, are all finely in evidence.
The English reader who seeks an introduction to Darmesteter is
directed to his ( Selected Essays, * translated by Helen B. Jastrow,
edited with a memoir by Professor Morris Jastrow, Jr. (Houghton,
Mifflin and Company, Boston). There is a translation by Ada S.
Ballin of his ( The Mahdi > (Harper and Brothers, New York) ; and in
the Contemporary Review for January, 1895, is a noble appreciation
of Darmesteter by his friend Gaston Paris. In the ( Sacred Books of
the East* will be found an English rendering of the Avesta by
Darmesteter and Mills.
As a thinker in the philosophical sense Darmesteter was remark-
able. Early breaking away from orthodox Judaism, his philological
and historical researches led him to accept the conclusions of de-
structive criticism with regard to the Bible; and a disciple of Renan,
he became enrolled among those scholars who see in science the one
explanation of the universe. But possessing, along with his keen
analytic powers, a nature dominantly ethical, he made humanity his
idol. His patriotism for France was intense ; and, a Jew always
sympathetic to the wonderful history of his people, — in his later
years by a brilliant, poetical, almost audacious interpretation of the
Old Testament, — he found a solution of the riddle of life in the
Hebrew prophets. What he deemed their essential faith — Judaism
JAMES DARMESTETER 438i
stripped of ritual and legend — he declared to be in harmony with
the scientific creed of the present: belief in the unity of moral law, —
the Old Testament Jehovah; and belief in the eventual triumph of
justice upon this earth, — the modern substitute for the New Testa-
ment heaven. This doctrine, which in most hands would be cold and
comfortless enough, he makes vital, engaging, through the passionate
presentation of an eloquent lover of, his fellow-man. In a word,
Darmesteter was a Positivist, dowered, like that other noble Pos-
itivist George Eliot, with a nature sensitive to spiritual issues.
An idyllic passage in Darmesteter's toilful scholar life was his
tender friendship with the gifted English woman, A. Mary F. Robin-
son. Attracted by her lovely verse, the intellectual companionship
ripened into love, and for his half-dozen final years he enjoyed her
wifely aid and sympathy in what seems to have been an ideal union.
The end, when it came, was quick and painless. Always of a frail
constitution, stunted in body from childhood, he died in harness,
October igth, 1894, his head falling forward on his desk as he wrote.
The tributes that followed make plain the enthusiastic admiration
James Darmesteter awakened in those who knew him best. The
leading Orientalist of his generation, he added to the permanent
acquisitions of scholarship, and made his impress as one of the
remarkable personalities of France in the late nineteenth century.
In the language of a friend, (<a Jew by race, a Greek by culture, a
Frenchman in heart, w he furnishes another illustration of that strain
of genius which seems like a compensatory gift to the Jewish folk for
its manifold buffetings at the hand of Fate.
ERNEST RENAN
From < Selected Essays >: copyrighted 1895 by Houghton, Mifflin and Company
THE mistaken judgments passed upon M. Renan are due to
the fact that in his work he did not place the emphasis
upon the Good, but upon the True. Men concluded that
for him, therefore, science was the whole of life. The environ-
ment in which he was formed was forgotten, — an environment
in which the moral sense was exquisite and perfect, while the
scientific sense was nil. He did not need to discover the
moral sense, — it was the very atmosphere in which he lived.
When the scientific sense awoke in him, and he beheld the
world and history transfigured by it, he was dazzled, and the
influence lasted throughout his life. He dreamed of making
France understand this new revelation; he was the apostle of
JAMES DARMESTETER
this gospel of truth and science, but in heart and mind he
never attacked what is permanent and divine in the other
gospel. Thus he was a complete man, and deserved the
disdain of dilettantes morally dead, and of mystics scientifically
atonic.
What heritage has M. Renan left to posterity ? As a
scholar he created religious criticism in France, and prepared
for universal science that incomparable instrument, the Corpus.
As an author he bequeathed to universal art, pages which will
endure, and to him may be applied what he said of George
Sand : — <( He had the divine faculty of giving wings to his sub-
ject, of producing under the form of fine art the idea which in
other hands remained crude and formless. n As a philosopher
he left behind a mass of ideas which he did not care to collect
in doctrinal shape, but which nevertheless constitute a coherent
whole. One thing only in this world is certain, — duty. One
truth is plain in the course of the world as science reveals it:
the world is advancing to a higher, more perfect form of
being. The supreme happiness of man is to draw nearer to
this God to come, contemplating him in science, and preparing,
by action, the advent of a humanity nobler, better endowed,
and more akin to the ideal Being.
JUDAISM
From < Selected Essays >: copyrighted 1895 by Houghton, Miffiin and Company
JUDAISM has not made the miraculous the basis of its dogma,
nor installed the supernatural as a permanent factor in the
progress of events. Its miracles, from the time of the Mid-
dle Ages, are but a poetic detail, a legendary recital, a picturesque
decoration; and its cosmogony, borrowed in haste from Babylon
by the last compiler of the Bible, with the stories of the apple
and the serpent, over which so many Christian generations have
labored, never greatly disturbed the imagination of the rabbis,
nor weighed very heavily upon the thought of the Jewish phi-
losophers. Its rites were never <( an instrument of faith, w an
expedient to <( lull w rebellious thought into faith ; they are merely
cherished customs, a symbol of the family, of transitory value,
and destined to disappear when there shall be but one family in
a world converted to the one truth. Set aside all these miracles,
JAMES DARMESTETER 4383
all these rites, and behind them will be found the two great
dogmas which, ever since the prophets, constitute the whole of
Judaism — the Divine unity and Messianism; unity of law through-
out the world, and the terrestrial triumph of justice in humanity.
These are the two dogmas which at the present time illuminate
humanity in its progress, both in the scientific and social order
of things, and which are termed in modern parlance unity of
forces and belief in progress.
For this reason, Judaism is the only religion that has never
entered into conflict, and never can, with either science or social
progress, and that has witnessed, and still witnesses, all their
conquests without a sense of fear. These are not hostile forces
that it accepts or submits to merely from a spirit of toleration
or policy, in order to save the remains of its power by a com-
promise. They are old friendly voices, which it recognizes and
salutes with joy; for it has heard them resound for centuries
already, in the axioms of free thought and in the cry of the
suffering heart. For this reason the Jews, in all the countries
which have entered upon the new path, have begun to take a
share in all the great works of civilization, in the triple field of
science, of art, and of action; and that share, far from being an
insignificant one, is out of all proportion to the brief time that
has elapsed since their enfranchisement.
Does this mean that Judaism should nurse dreams of ambi-
tion, and think of realizing one day that <( invisible church of the
future M invoked by some in prayer ? This would be an illusion,
whether on the part of a narrow sectarian, or on that of an
enlightened individual. The truth however remains, that the
Jewish spirit can still be a factor in this world, making for the
highest science, for unending progress; and that the mission of
the Bible is not yet complete. The Bible is not responsible for
the partial miscarriage of Christianity, due to the compromises
made by its organizers, who, in their too great zeal to conquer
and convert Paganism, were themselves converted by it. But
everything in Christianity which comes in a direct line from
Judaism lives, and will live; and it is Judaism which through
Christianity has cast into the old polytheistic world, to ferment
there until the end of time, the sentiment of unity, and an
impatience to bring about charity and justice. The reign of the
Bible, and also of the Evangelists in so far as they were inspired
by the Bible, can become established only in proportion as the
JAMES DARMESTETER
positive religions connected with it lose their power. Great reli-
gions outlive their altars and their priests. Hellenism, abolished,
counts less skeptics to-day than in the days of Socrates and
Anaxagoras. The gods of Homer died when Phidias carved
them in marble, and now they are immortally enthroned in the
thought and heart of Europe. The Cross may crumble into
dust, but there were words spoken under its shadow in Galilee,
the echo of which will forever vibrate in the human conscience.
And when the nation who made the Bible shall have disap-
peared,— the race and the cult, — though leaving no visible
trace of its passage upon earth, its imprint will remain in the
depth of the heart of generations, who will, unconsciously per-
haps, live upon what has thus been implanted in their breasts.
Humanity, as it is fashioned in the dreams of those who desire
to be called freethinkers, may with the lips deny the Bible and
its work; but humanity can never deny it in its heart, without
the sacrifice of the best that it contains, faith in unity and hope
for justice, and without a relapse into the mythology and the
<( might makes right w of thirty centuries ago.
43«5
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
(1809-1882)
BY E. RAY LANKESTER
JHARLES ROBERT DARWIN, the great naturalist and author of
the "Darwinian theory, w was the son of Dr. Robert Waring
Darwin (1766-1848) and grandson of Erasmus Darwin (1731-
1802). He was born at Shrewsbury on February i2th, 1809. W. E.
Gladstone, Alfred Tennyson, and Abraham Lincoln were born in the
same year. Charles Darwin was the youngest of a family of four, hav-
ing an elder brother and two sisters. He was sent to a day school at
Shrewsbury in the year of his mother's death, 1817. At this age he
tells us that the passion for (< collecting M which leads a man to be a
systematic naturalist, a virtuoso, or a miser, was very strong in him,
and was clearly innate, as none of his brothers or sisters had this
taste. A year later he was removed to the Shrewsbury grammar
school, where he profited little by the education in the dead lan-
guages administered, and incurred (as even to-day would be the case
in English schools) the rebukes of the head-master Butler for <( wast-
ing his time M upon such unprofitable subjects as natural history and
chemistry, which he pursued (<out of school.*
When Charles was sixteen his father sent him to Edinburgh to
study medicine, but after two sessions there he was removed and
sent to Cambridge (1828) with the intention that he should become
a clergyman. In 1831 he took his B. A. degree as what is called a
w pass-man. w In those days the injurious system of competitive
examinations had not laid hold of the Universities of Oxford and
Cambridge as it has since, and Darwin quietly took a pass degree
wThilst studying a variety of subjects of interest to him, without
a thought of excelling in an examination. He was fond of all field
sports, of dogs and horses, and also spent much time in excursions,
collecting and observing with Henslow the professor of botany, and
Sedgwick the celebrated geologist. An undergraduate friend of those
days has declared that (<he was the most genial, warm-hearted, gen-
erous and affectionate of friends; his sympathies were with all that
was good and true; he had a cordial hatred for everything false, or
vile, or cruel, or mean, or dishonorable. He was not only great but
pre-eminently good, and just and lovable. w
Through Henslow and the sound advice of his uncle Josiah Wedg-
wood (the son of the potter of Etruria) he accepted an offer to
vin— 275
4386
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
accompany Captain Fitzroy as naturalist on H. M. S. Beagle, which
was to make an extensive surveying expedition. The voyage lasted
from December 27th, 1831, to October 2d, 1836. It was, Darwin
himself says, (< by far the most important event in my life, and has
determined my whole career." He had great opportunities of making
explorations on land whilst the ship was engaged in her surveying
work in various parts of the southern hemisphere, and made exten-
sive collections of plants and animals, fossil as well as living forms,
terrestrial as well as marine. On his return he was busy with the
description of these results, and took up his residence in London.
His ( Journal of Researches' was published in 1839, and is now
familiar to many readers in its third edition, published in 1860
under the title (A Naturalist's Voyage; Journal of Researches into
the Natural History and Geology of the Countries visited during the
Voyage of H. M. S. Beagle round the World, under the command of
Captain Fitzroy, R. N.»
This was Darwin's first book, and is universally held to be one
of the most delightful records of a naturalist's travels ever produced.
It is to be placed alongside of Humboldt's Personal Narrative,* and
is the model followed by the authors of other delightful books of
travel of a later date, such as Wallace's ( Malay Archipelago,* Mose-
ley's < Naturalist on the Challenger,* and Belt's ( Naturalist in Nica-
ragua.* We have given in our selections from Darwin's writings the
final pages of ( A Naturalist's Voyage * as an example of the style
which characterizes the book. In it Darwin shows himself an ardent
and profound lover of the luxuriant beauty of nature in the tropics, a
kindly observer of men, whether missionaries or savages; an inces-
sant student of natural things — rocks, plants, and animals; and one
with a mind so keenly set upon explaining these things and assign-
ing them to their causes, that none of his observations are trivial,
but all of value and many of first-rate importance. The book is
addressed, as are all of Darwin's books, to the general reader. It
seemed to be natural to him to try and explain his observations and
reasonings which led to them and followed from them to a wide
circle of his fellow-men. The reader at once feels that Darwin is an
honest and modest man, who desires his sympathy and seeks for his
companionship in the enjoyment of his voyage and the interesting
facts and theories gathered by him in distant lands. The quiet un-
assuming style of the narrative, and the careful explanation of details
in such a way as to appeal to those who have little or no knowledge
of natural history, gives a charm to the ( Naturalist's Voyage * which
is possessed in no less a degree by his later books. A writer in the
Quarterly Review in 1839 wrote, in reviewing the < Naturalist's Voy-
age,* of the (< charm arising from the freshness of heart which is thrown
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4387
over these pages of a strong intellectual man and an acute and deep
observer. M The places visited in the course of the Beagle's voyage,
concerning each of which Darwin has something to say, were the
Cape Verd Islands, St. Paul's Rocks, Fernando Noronha, parts of
South America, Tierra del Fuego, the Galapagos Islands, the Falk-
land Islands, Tahiti, New Zealand, Australia, Tasmania, Keeling
Island, the Maldives, Mauritius, St. Helena, Ascension. The most
important discoveries recorded in the book — also treated at greater
length in special scientific memoirs — are the explanation of the ring-
like form of coral islands, the geological structure of St. Helena and
other islands, and the relation of the living inhabitants — great tor-
toises, lizards, birds, and various plants — of the various islands of
the Galapagos Archipelago to those of South America.
In 1839 (shortly before the publication of his journal) Darwin mar-
ried his first cousin, Emma Wedgwood, daughter of Josiah Wedgwood
of Maer, and in 1842 they took the country-house and little property
of Down near Orpington in Kent, which remained his home and the
seat of his labors for forty years; that is, until his death on April
1 9th, 1882. In a letter to his friend Captain Fitzroy of the Beagle,
written in 1 846, Darwin says, (< My life goes on like clockwork, and I
am fixed on the spot where I shall end it.w Happily, he was pos-
sessed of ample private fortune, and never undertook any teaching
work nor gave any of his strength to the making of money. He
was able to devote himself entirely to the studies in which he took
delight; and though suffering from weak health due to a hereditary
form of dyspepsia, he presented the rare spectacle of a man of
leisure more fully occupied, more absorbed in constant and exhaust-
ing labors, than many a lawyer, doctor, professor, or man of letters.
His voyage seems to have satisfied once for all his need for travel-
ing, and his absences from Down were but few and brief during the
rest of his life. Here most of his children were born, five sons and
three daughters. One little girl died in childhood; the rest grew up
around him and remained throughout his life in the closest terms
of intimacy and affection with him and their mother. Here he car-
ried on his experiments in greenhouse, garden, and paddock; here he
collected his library and wrote his great books. He became a man
of well-considered habits and method, carefully arranging his day's
occupation so as to give so many hours to noting the results of
experiments, so many to writing and reading, and an hour or two
Jto exercise in his grounds or a ride, and playing with his children.
Frequently he was stopped for days and even weeks from all intel-
lectual labor by attacks of vomiting and giddiness. Great as were
his sufferings on account of ill health, it is not improbable that the
retirement of life which was thus forced on him, to a very large
4388
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
extent determined his wonderful assiduity in study and led to the
production by him of so many great works.
In later years these attacks were liable to ensue upon prolonged
conversation with visitors, if a subject of scientific interest were
discussed. His wife, who throughout their long and happy union
devoted herself to the care of her husband so as to enable him to do
a maximum amount of work with least suffering in health, would
come and fetch him away after half an hour's talk, that he might lie
down alone in a quiet room. Then after an hour or so he would
return with a smile, like a boy released from punishment, and launch
again with a merry laugh into talk. Never was there an invalid who
bore his maladies so cheerfully, or who made so light of a terrible
burden. Although he was frequently seasick during the voyage of
the Beagle, he did not attribute his condition in later life in any
way to that experience, but to inherited weakness. During the hours
passed in his study he found it necessary to rest at intervals, and
adopted regularly the plan of writing for an hour and of then lying
down for half an hour, whilst his wife or daughter read to him a
novel! After half an hour he would again resume his work, and again
after an hour return to the novel. In this way he got through the
greater part of the circulating libraries' contents. He declared that
he had no taste for literature, but liked a story, especially about a
pretty girl; and he would only read those in which all ended well.
Authors of stories ending in death and failure ought, he declared, to
be hung!
He rarely went to London, on account of his health, and conse-
quently kept up a very large correspondence with scientific friends,
especially with Lyell, Hooker, and Huxley. He made it a rule to
preserve every letter he received, and his friends were careful to
preserve his ; so that in the ( Life and Letters * published after his
death by his son Frank — who in later years lived with his father and
assisted him in his work — we have a most interesting record of the
progress of his speculations, as well as a delightful revelation of his
beautiful character. His house was large enough to accommodate
several guests at a time ; and it was his delight to receive here for a
week's end not only his old friends and companions, but younger
naturalists, and others, the companions of his sons and daughters.
Over six feet in height, with a slight stoop of his high shoulders,
with a brow of unparalleled development overshadowing his merry
blue eyes, and a long gray beard and mustache, — he presented the
ideal picture of a natural philosopher. His bearing was, however,
free from all pose of superior wisdom or authority. The most charm-
ing and unaffected gayety, and an eager innate courtesy and good-
ness of heart, were its dominant notes. His personality was no less
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN 4389
fascinating and rare in quality than are the immortal products of
his intellect.
The history of the great works which Darwin produced, and
especially of his theory of the Origin of Species, is best given in
his own words. The passage which is here referred to is a portion
of an autobiographical sketch written by him in 1876, not for publi-
cation but for the use of his family, and is printed in the (Life and
Letters. } Taken together with the statement as to his views on re-
ligion, it gives a great insight both into the character and mental
quality of the writer. It is especially remarkable as the attempt of
a truly honest and modest man to account for the wonderful height
of celebrity and intellectual eminence to which he was no less
astonished than pleased to find himself raised. But it also furnishes
the reader with an admirable catalogue raisonne' of his books, arranged
in chronological order.
A few more notes as to Darwin's character will help the reader
to appreciate his work. His friendships were remarkable, character-
ized on his side by the warmest and most generous feeling. Hens-
low, Fitzroy, Lyell, Hooker, and Huxley stand out as his chief
friends and correspondents. Henslow was professor of botany at
Cambridge, and took Darwin with him when a student there for
walks, collecting plants and insects. His admiration for Henslow's
character, and his tribute to his fine simplicity and warmth of feel-
ing in matters involving the wrongs of a down-trodden class or
cruelty to an individual, are evidence of deep sympathy between
the natures of Darwin and his first teacher. Of Fitzroy, the captain
of H. M. S. Beagle — with whom he quarreled for a day because
Fitzroy defended slavery — Darwin says that he was in many ways
the noblest character he ever knew. His love and admiration for
Lyell were unbounded. Lyell was the man who taught him the
method — the application of the causes at present discoverable in
nature to the past history of the earth — by which he was led to the
solution of the question as to the origin of organic forms on the
earth's surface. He regarded Lyell, who with Mrs. Lyell often
visited him at Down, more than any other man as his master and
teacher. Hooker — still happily surviving from among this noble
group of men — was his (< dear old friend w ; his most constant and
unwearied correspondent ; he from whom Darwin could always extract
the most valuable facts and opinions in the field of botanical sci-
ence, and the one upon whose help he always relied. Huxley was for
Darwin not merely a delightful and charming friend, but a (< wonder-
ful man," — a most daring, skillful champion, whose feats of literary
swordsmanship made Darwin both tremble and rejoice. Samples of
bis correspondence with these fellow-workers are given below. The
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
letter to Hooker (September 26th, 1862) is particularly interesting, as
recording one of the most important discoveries of his later years, —
confirmed by the subsequent researches of Gardiner and others, — and
as containing a pretty confession of his jealous desire to exalt the
status of plants. Often he spoke and wrote in his letters of indi-
vidual plants with which he was experimenting as (< little rascals.*
Darwin shared with other great men whose natures approach per-
fection, an unusual sympathy with and power over dogs, and a love
for children. The latter trait is most beautifully expressed in a note
which was found amongst his papers, giving an account of his little
girl, who died at the age of ten years. Written for his own eyes
only, it is a most delicate and tender composition, and should be pon-
dered side by side with his frank and — necessarily to some readers —
almost terrifying statement of his thoughts on religion.
Darwin's only self-indulgence was snuff-taking. In later years he
smoked an occasional cigarette, but his real (< little weakness" was
snuff. It is difficult to suppose that he did not benefit by the habit,
careful as he was to keep it in check. He kept his snuff-box in the
hall of his house, so that he should have to take the trouble of a
walk in order to get a pinch, and not have too easy an access to the
magic powder.
The impression made on him by his own success and the over-
whelming praise and even reverence which he received from all parts
of the world, was characteristic of his charming nature. Darwin did
not receive these proofs of the triumphs of his views with the. solem-
nity of an inflated reformer who has laid his law upon the whole
world of thought. Quite otherwise. He was simply delighted. He
chuckled gayly over the spread of his views, almost as a sportsman
— and we must remember that in his young days he was a sports-
man— may rejoice in the triumphs of his own favorite « racer, * or
even as a schoolboy may be proud and happy in the success of <(the
eleven » of which he is captain. He delighted to count up the
sale of his books, not specially for the money value it represented,
though he was too sensible to be indifferent to that, but because it
proved to him that his long and arduous life of thought, experiment,
and literary work was not in vain. To have been or to have posed
as being indifferent to popular success, would have required a man
of less vivid sympathy with his fellow-men; to have been puffed up
and pretentious would have needed one less gifted with a sense of
humor, less conscious of the littleness of one man, however talented,
in the vast procession of life on the earth's surface. His delight in
his work and its success was of the perfect and natural kind, which
he could communicate to his wife and daughters, and might have
been shared by a child.
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4391
I, who write of him here, had the great privilege of staying with
him from time to time at Down, and I find it difficult to record
the strangely mixed feeling of reverential admiration and extreme
personal attachment and affection with which I came to regard him.
I have never known or heard of a man who combined with such
exceptional intellectual power so much cheeriness and love of humor,
and such ideal kindness, courtesy, and modesty. Owing to the fact
that my father was a naturalist and man of letters, I as a boy knew
Henslow and Lyell, Darwin's teachers, and have myself enjoyed a
naturalist's walk with the one and the geological discussions of the
other. I first saw Darwin himself in 1853, when he was recommended
to my boyish imagination as (< a man who had ridden up a mountain
on the back of a tortoise w (in the Galapagos Islands) ! When I began
to work at and write on zoology he showed his kindness of heart by
writing to me in praise of my first book: he wrote to me later in
answer to my appeal for guidance, that (< physiological experiment on
animals is justifiable for real investigation; but not for mere damna-
ble and detestable curiosity. It is a subject which makes me sick
with horror, so I will not say another word about it, else I shall not
sleep to-night. w When I prosecuted Slade the spiritualistic impostor,
and obtained his conviction at Bow Street as a common rogue, Dar-
win was much interested, and after the affair was over wrote to say
that he was sure that I had been at great expense in effecting
what he considered to be a public benefit, and that he should like to
be allowed to contribute ten pounds to the cost of the prosecution.
He was ever ready in this way to help by timely gifts of money
what he thought to be a good cause, as for instance in the erection
of the Zoological Station of Naples by Dr. Anton Dohrn, to which he
gave a hundred pounds. His most characteristic minor trait which
I remember, was his sitting in his drawing-room at Down in his
high-seated arm-chair, and whilst laughing at some story or joke, slap-
ping his thigh with his right hand and exclaiming, with a quite inno-
cent and French freedom of speech, <( O my God! That's very good.
That's capital. w Perhaps one of the most interesting things that I
ever heard him say was when, after describing to me an experiment
in which he had placed under a bell- jar some pollen from a male
flower, together with an unfertilized female flower, in order to see
whether, when kept at a distance but under the same jar, the one
would act in any way on the other, he remarked: — <( That's a fool's
experiment. But I love fools' experiments. I am always making
them." A great deal might be written as comment on that state-
ment. Perhaps the thoughts which it suggests may be summed up by
the proposition that even a wise experiment when made by a fool
generally leads to a false conclusion, but that fools' experiments
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
conducted by a genius often prove to be leaps through the dark
into great discoveries.
As examples of Darwin's writings I have chosen, in addition to
those already mentioned, certain passages from his great book on the
( Origin of Species,* in which he explains what he understands by the
terms (< Natural Selection w and the <( Struggle for Existence. M These
terms invented by Darwin — but specially the latter — have become
"household words.* The history of his thoughts on the subject of
the Origin of Species is given in the account of his books, written
by himself and already referred to. His letter to Professor Asa
Gray (September 5th, 1857) is a most valuable brief exposition of his
theory and an admirable sample of his correspondence. The distin-
guished American botanist was one of his most constant correspond-
ents and a dear personal friend.
I have also given as an extract the final pages of the ( Origin of
Species, > in which Darwin eloquently defends the view of nature to
which his theory leads. A similar and important passage on the sub-
ject of ( Creative Design > is also given : it is taken from that wonder-
ful collection of facts and arguments published by Darwin under the
title of < The Variation of Plants and Animals under Domestication. }
It cannot be too definitely stated, as Darwin himself insisted, that his
theory of the Origin of Species is essentially an extension of the
argument used by Lyell in his ( Principles of Geology. * Just as
Lyell accounted for the huge masses of stratified rocks, the upheaved
mountain chains, the deep valleys, and the shifting seas of the
earth's surface, by adducing the long-continued cumulative action of
causes which are at this present moment in operation and can be
observed and measured at the present day: so Darwin demonstrates
that natural variation, and consequent selection by <( breeders w and
« fanciers" at the present day, give rise to new forms of plants and
animals; and that the cumulative, long-continued action of Natural
Selection in the Struggle for Existence, or the survival of favorable
variations, can and must have effected changes, the magnitude of
which is only limited by the length of time during which the process
has been going on.
The style of Darwin's writings is remarkable for the absence of
all affectation, of all attempt at epigram, literary allusion, or rhet-
oric. In this it is admirably suited to its subject. At the same time
there is no sacrifice of clearness to brevity, nor are technical terms
used in place of ordinary language. The greatest pains are obviously
given by the author to enable his reader to thoroughly understand
the matter in hand. Further, the reader is treated not only with
this courtesy of full explanation, but with extreme fairness and
modesty. Darwin never slurs over a difficulty nor minimizes it. He
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4393
states objections and awkward facts prominently, and without shirk-
ing proceeds to deal with them by citation of experiment or observa-
tion carried out by him for the purpose. His modesty towards his
reader is a delightful characteristic. He simply desires to persuade
you as one reasonable friend may persuade another. He never
thrusts a conclusion nor even a step towards a conclusion upon you,
by a demand for your confidence in him as an authority, or by an
unfair weighting of the arguments which he balances, or by a juggle
of word-play. The consequence is that though Darwin himself
thought he had no literary ability, and labored over and re-wrote his
sentences, we have in his works a model of clear exposition of a
great argument, and the most remarkable example of persuasive
style in the English language — persuasive because of its transparent
honesty and scrupulous moderation.
Darwin enjoyed rather better health in the last ten years of his
life than before, and was able to work and write constantly. For
some four months before his death, but not until then, it was evi-
dent that his heart was seriously diseased. He died on April igth,
1882, at the age of seventy-three. Almost his last words were, (<I
am not the least afraid to die.8 In 1879 he added to the manuscript
of his autobiography already referred to, these words: — (<As for
myself, I believe that I have acted rightly in steadily following and
devoting my life to Science. I feel no remorse from having com-
mitted any great sin, but have often and often regretted that I have
not done more direct good to my f ellow-creatures. w
From his early manhood to old age, the desire to do what was
right determined the employment of his powers. He has done to his
fellow-creatures an imperishable good, in leaving to them his writ-
ings and the example of his noble life.
IMPRESSIONS OF TRAVEL
From <A Naturalist's Voyage >
AMONG the scenes which are deeply impressed on my mind,
none exceed in sublimity the primeval forests undefaced by
the hand of man; whether those of Brazil, where the pow-
ers of Life are predominant, or those of Tierra del Fuego, where
Death and Decay prevail. Both are temples filled with the
varied productions of the God of Nature; no one can stand in
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
these solitudes unmoved, and not feel that there is more in man
than the mere breath of his body. In calling up images of the
past, I find that the plains of Patagonia frequently cross before
my eyes; yet these plains are pronounced by all wretched and
useless. They can be described only by negative characters:
without habitations, without water, without trees, without mount-
ains, they support merely a few dwarf plants. Why then —
and the case is not peculiar to myself — have these arid wastes
taken so firm a hold on my memory ? Why have not the. still
more level, the greener and more fertile pampas, which are
serviceable to mankind, produced an equal impression ? I can
scarcely analyze these feelings; but it must be partly owing to
the free scope given to the imagination. The plains of Pata-
gonia are boundless, for they are scarcely passable, and hence
unknown; they bear the stamp of having lasted, as they are
now, for ages, and there appears no limit to their duration
through future time. If, as the ancients supposed, the flat earth
was surrounded by an impassable breadth of water, or by deserts
heated to an intolerable excess, who would not look at these last
boundaries to man's knowledge with deep but ill-defined sensa-
tions ?
Lastly, of natural scenery, the views from lofty mountains,
though certainly in one sense not beautiful, are very memorable.
When looking down from the highest crest of the Cordillera, the
mind, undisturbed by minute details, was filled with the stupen-
dous dimensions of the surrounding masses.
Of individual objects, perhaps nothing is more certain to
create astonishment than the first sight in his native haunt of a
barbarian — of man in his lowest and most savage state. One's
mind hurries back over past centuries, and then asks: Could our
progenitors have been men like these ? men whose very signs
and expressions are less intelligible to us than those of the
domesticated animals; men who do not possess the instinct of
those animals, nor yet appear to boast of human reason, or at
least of arts consequent on that reason. I do not believe it is
possible to describe or paint the difference between savage and
civilized man. It is the difference between a wild and tame
animal; and part of the interest in beholding a savage is the
same which would lead every one to desire to see the lion in his
desert, the tiger tearing his prey in the jungle, or the rhinoceros
wandering over the wild plains of Africa.
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
Among the other most remarkable spectacles which we have
beheld may be ranked the Southern Cross, the cloud of Magellan,
and the other constellations of the southern hemisphere — the
water-spout — the glacier leading its blue stream of ice, over-
hanging the sea in a bold precipice — a lagoon island raised by
the reef-building corals — an active volcano — and the overwhelm-
ing effects of a violent earthquake. These latter phenomena per-
haps possess for me a peculiar interest, from their intimate
connection with the geological structure of the world. The
earthquake, however, must be to every one a most impressive
event: the earth, considered from our earliest childhood as the
type of solidity, has oscillated like a thin crust beneath our feet;
and in seeing the labored works of man in a moment over-
thrown, we feel the insignificance of his boasted power.
It has been said that the love of the chase is an inherent
delight in man — a relic of an instinctive passion. If so, I am
sure the pleasure of living in the open air, with the sky for a
roof and the ground for a table, is part of the same feeling; it
is the savage returning to his wild and native habits. I always
look back to our boat cruises and my land journeys, when
through unfrequented countries, with an extreme delight, which
no scenes of civilization could have created. I do not doubt that
every traveler must remember the glowing sense of happiness
which he experienced when he first breathed in a foreign clime,
where the civilized man had seldom or never trod.
There are several other sources of enjoyment in a long voy-
age which are of a more reasonable nature. The map of the
world ceases to be a blank; it becomes a picture full of the
most varied and animated figures. Each part assumes its proper
dimensions; continents are not looked at in the light of islands,
or islands considered as mere specks, which are in truth larger
than many kingdoms of Europe. Africa, or North and South
America, are well-sounding names, and easily pronounced; but
it is not until having sailed for weeks along small portions of
their shores that one is thoroughly convinced what vast spaces
on our immense world these names imply.
From seeing the present state, it is impossible not to look
forward with high expectations to the future progress of nearly
an entire hemisphere. The march of improvement consequent
on the introduction of Christianity throughout the South Sea
probably stands by itself in the records of history. It is the
4396
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
more striking when we remember that only sixty years since,
Cook, whose excellent judgment none will dispute, could foresee
no prospect of a change. Yet these changes have now been
effected by the philanthropic spirit of the British nation.
In the same quarter of the globe Australia is rising, or
indeed may be said to have risen, into a grand centre of
civilization, which at some not very remote period will rule as
empress over the southern hemisphere. It is impossible for an
Englishman to behold these distant colonies without a high pride
and satisfaction. To hoist the British flag seems to draw with it,
as a certain consequence, wealth, prosperity, and civilization.
In conclusion, it appears to me that nothing can be more
improving to a young naturalist than a journey in distant coun-
tries. It both sharpens and partly allays that want and craving
which, as Sir J. Herschel remarks, a man experiences although
every corporeal sense be fully satisfied. The excitement from
the novelty of objects, and the chance of success, stimulate him
to increased activity. Moreover, as a number of isolated facts
soon become uninteresting, the habit of comparison leads to gen-
eralization. On the other hand, as the traveler stays but a short
time in each place, his descriptions must generally consist of
mere sketches instead of detailed observations. Hence arises, as
I have found to my cost, a constant tendency to fill up the wide
gaps of knowledge by inaccurate and superficial hypotheses.
But I have too deeply enjoyed the voyage not to recommend
any naturalist, — although he must not expect to be so fortunate
in his companions as I have been, — to take all chances, and to
start, on travels by land if possible, if otherwise on a long voy-
age. He may feel assured he will meet with no difficulties or
dangers, excepting in rare cases, nearly so bad as he beforehand
anticipates. In a moral point of view the effect ought to be to
teach him good-humored patience, freedom from selfishness, the
habit of acting for himself, and of making the best of every
occurrence. In short, he ought to partake of the characteristic
qualities of most sailors. Traveling ought also to teach him dis-
trust; but at the same time he will discover how many truly
kind-hearted people there are with whom he never before had,
or ever again will have, any further communication, who yet are
ready to offer him the most disinterested assistance.
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
THE GENESIS OF <THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES >
From < Life and Letters >
AFTER several fruitless searches in Surrey and elsewhere, we
found this house and purchased it. I was pleased with the
diversified appearance of vegetation proper to a chalk dis-
trict, and so unlike what I had been accustomed to in the Mid-
land counties; and still more pleased with the extreme quietness
and rusticity of the place. It is not however quite so retired a
place as a writer in a German periodical makes it, who says that
my house can be approached only by a mule-track! Our fixing
ourselves here has answered admirably in one way which we did
not anticipate, — namely, by being very convenient for frequent
visits from our children.
Few persons* can have lived a more retired life than we have
done. Besides short visits to the houses of relations, and occa-
sionally to the seaside or elsewhere, we have gone nowhere.
During the first part of our residence we went a little into
society, and received a few friends here; but my health almost
always suffered from the excitement, violent shivering and vomit-
ing attacks being thus brought on. I have therefore been com-
pelled for many years to give up all dinner parties; and this has
been somewhat of a deprivation to me, as such parties always
put me into high spirits. From the same cause I have been
able to invite here very few scientific acquaintances. . . .
During the voyage of the Beagle I had been deeply impressed
by discovering in the Pampean formation great fossil animals,
covered with armor like that on the existing armadillos; secondly,
by the manner in which closely allied animals replace one another
in proceeding southwards over the Continent; and thirdly, by the
South-American character of most of the productions of the
Galapagos Archipelago, and more especially by the manner in
which they differ slightly on each island of the group; none of
the islands appearing to be very ancient in a geological sense.
It was evident that such facts as these, as well as many
others, could only be explained on the supposition that species
gradually become modified; and the subject haunted me. But it
was equally evident that neither the action of the surrounding
conditions, nor the will of the organisms (especially in the case
of plants), could account for the innumerable cases in which
4398
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
organisms of every kind are beautifully adapted to their habits of
life; for instance, a woodpecker or a tree-frog to climb trees,
or a seed for dispersal by hooks or plumes. I had always been
much struck by such adaptations, and until these could be
explained it seemed to me almost useless to endeavor to prove
by indirect evidence that species have been modified.
After my return to England it appeared to me that by fol-
lowing the example of Lyell in Geology, and by collecting all
facts which bore in any way on the variation of animals and
plants under domestication and nature, some light might perhaps
be thrown on the whole subject. My first note-book was opened
in July 1837. I worked on true Baconian principles; and without
any theory collected facts on a wholesale scale, more especially
with respect to domesticated productions, by printed inquiries,
by conversation with skillful breeders and gardeners, and by
extensive reading. When I see the list of books of all kinds
which I read and abstracted, including whole series of Journals
and Transactions, I am surprised at my industry. I soon per-
ceived that selection was the keystone of man's success in making
useful races of animals and plants. But how selection could be
applied to organisms living in a state of nature, remained for
some time a mystery to me.
In October 1838 — that is, fifteen months after I had begun
my systematic inquiry — I happened to read for amusement
( Malthus on Population * ; and being well prepared to appreciate
the struggle for existence which everywhere goes on from long-
continued observation of the habits of animals and plants, it at
once struck me that under these circumstances favorable varia-
tions would tend to be preserved, and unfavorable ones to be
destroyed. The result of this would be the formation of new
species. Here then I had at last got a theory by which to work ;
but I was so anxious to avoid prejudice that I determined not
for some time to write even the briefest sketch of it. In June
1842 I first allowed myself the satisfaction of writing a very
brief abstract of my theory in pencil in thirty-five pages; and
this was enlarged during the summer of 1844 into one of two
hundred and thirty pages, which I had fairly copied out and
still possess.
But at that time I overlooked one problem of great import-
ance; and it is astonishing to me, except on the principle of
Columbus and his egg, how I coiild have overlooked it and its
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4399
solution. This problem is the tendency in organic beings de-
scended from the same stock to diverge in character as they
become modified. That they have diverged greatly is obvious
from the manner in which species of all kinds can be classed
under genera, genera under families, families under sub-orders,
and so forth: and I can remember the very spot in the road,
whilst in my carriage, when to my joy the solution occurred to
me; and this was long after I had come to Down. The solution,
as I believe, is that the modified offspring of all dominant and
increasing forms tend to become adapted to many and highly
diversified places in the economy of nature.
Early in 1856 Lyell advised me to write out my views pretty
fully, and I began at once to do so on a scale three or four
times as extensive as that which was afterwards followed in my
( Origin of Species > ; yet it was only an abstract of the materials
which I had collected, and I got through about half the work
on this scale. But my plans were overthrown, for early in the
summer of 1858 Mr. Wallace, who was then in the Malay Archi-
pelago, sent me an essay ( On the Tendency of Varieties to
depart Indefinitely from the Original Type J ; and this essay con-
tained exactly the same theory as mine. Mr. Wallace expressed
the wish that if I thought well of his essay, I should send it to
Lyell for perusal.
The circumstances under which I consented, at the request
of Lyell and Hooker, to allow of an abstract from my MS.,
together with a letter to Asa Gray dated September 5th 1857, to
be published at the same time with Wallace's essay, are given
in the ( Journal of the Proceedings of the Linnean Society,* 1858,
page 45. I was at first very unwilling to consent, as I thought
Mr. Wallace might consider my doing so unjustifiable, for I did
not then know how generous and noble was his disposition. The
extract from my MS. and the letter to Asa Gray had neither
been intended for publication, and were badly written. Mr. Wal-
lace's essay, on the other hand, was admirably expressed and quite
clear. Nevertheless, our joint productions excited very little
attention, and the only published notice of them which I can
remember was by Professor Haughton of Dublin, whose verdict
was that all that was new in them was false, and what was true
was old. This shows how necessary it is that any new view
should be explained at considerable length in order to arouse
public attention.
4400 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
My habits are methodical, and this has been of not a little
use for my particular line of work. Lastly, I have had ample
leisure from not having to earn my own bread. Even ill health,
though it has annihilated several years of my life, has saved me
from the distractions of society and amusement.
Therefore my success as a man of science, whatever this may
have amounted to, has been determined as far as I can judge
by complex and diversified mental qualities and conditions. Of
these, the most important have been the love of science, un-
bounded patience in long reflecting over any subject, industry in
observing and collecting facts, and a fair share of invention as
well as of common-sense. With such moderate abilities as I pos-
sess, it is truly surprising that I should have influenced to a
considerable extent the belief of scientific men on some import-
ant points.
CURIOUS ATROPHY OF ESTHETIC TASTE
From < Life and Letters >
THERE seems to be a sort of fatality in my mind, leading me to
put at first my statement or proposition in a wrong or awk-
ward form. Formerly I used to think about my sentences
before writing them down; but for several years I have found that
it saves time to scribble in a vile hand whole pages as quickly
as I possibly can, contracting half the words; and then correct
deliberately. Sentences thus scribbled down are often better
ones than I could have written deliberately.
Having said thus much about my manner of writing, I will
add that with my large books I spend a good deal of time over
the general arrangement of the matter. I first make the rudest
outline in two or three pages, and then a larger one in several
pages, a few words or one word standing for a whole discussion
or a series of facts. Each one of these headings is again en-
larged and often transferred before I begin to write in extenso.
As in several of my books facts observed by others have been
very extensively used, and as I have always had several quite
distinct subjects in hand at the same time, I may mention that I
keep from thirty to forty large portfolios in cabinets with labeled
shelves, into which I can at once put a detached reference or
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN 44OI
memorandum. I have bought many books, and at their ends I
make an index of all the facts that concern my work; or if the
book is not my own, write out a separate abstract, and of such
abstracts I have a large drawer full. Before beginning on any
subject I look to all the short indexes and make a general and
classified index, and by taking the one or more proper portfolios,
I have all the information collected during my life ready for
use.
I have said that in one respect my mind has changed during
the last twenty or thirty years. Up to the age of thirty, or
beyond it, poetry of many kinds, such as the works of Milton,
Gray, Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley, gave me great
pleasure; and even as a schoolboy I took intense delight in
Shakespeare, especially in the historical plays. I have also said
that formerly pictures gave me considerable, and music very
great delight. But now for many years I cannot endure to read
a line of poetry: I have tried lately to read Shakespeare, and
found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me. I have also
almost lost my taste for pictures or music. Music generally sets
me thinking too energetically on what I have been at work on,
instead of giving me pleasure. I retain some taste for fine
scenery, but it does not cause me the exquisite delight which it
formerly did. On the other hand, novels which are works of
the imagination, though not of a very high order, have been for
years a wonderful relief and pleasure to me, and I often bless
all novelists. A surprising number have been read aloud to me,
and I like all if moderately good, and if they do not end unhap-
pily— against which a law ought to be passed. A novel, according
to my taste, does not come into the first class unless it contains
some person whom one can thoroughly love, and if a pretty
woman, all the better.
This curious and lamentable loss of the higher aesthetic tastes
is all the odder, as books on history, biographies, and travels
(independently of any scientific facts which they may contain),
and essays on all sorts of subjects, interest me as much as ever
they did. My mind seems to have become a kind of machine
for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts; but
why this should have caused the atrophy of that part of the
brain alone on which the higher tastes depend, I cannot con-
ceive. A man with a mind more highly organized or better con-
stituted than mine would not, I suppose, have thus suffered:
vin — 276
4402 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
and if I had to live my life again, I would have made a rule to
read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every
week; for perhaps the parts of my brain now atrophied would
thus have been kept active through use. The loss of these tastes
is a loss of happiness, and may possibly be injurious to the
intellect, and more probably to the moral character, by enfeebling
the emotional part of our nature.
PRIVATE MEMORANDUM CONCERNING HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER
From <Life and Letters >
OUR poor child Annie was born in Gower Street on March
ad, 1841, and expired at Malvern at midday on the 23d
of April, 1851. ,
I write these few pages, as I think in after years, if we live,
the impressions now put down will recall more vividly her chief
characteristics. From whatever point I look back at her, the main
feature in her disposition which at once rises before me is her
buoyant joyousness, tempered by two other characteristics; namely,
her sensitiveness, which might easily have been overlooked by a
stranger, and her strong affection. Her joyousness and animal
spirits radiated from her whole countenance, and rendered every
movement elastic and full of life and vigor. It was delightful
and cheerful to behold her. Her dear face now rises before me,
as she used sometimes to come running down-stairs with a stolen
pinch of snuff for me, her whole form radiant with the pleasure
of giving pleasure. Even when playing with her cousins, when
her joyousness almost passed into boisterousness, a single glance
of my eye, not of displeasure (for I thank God I hardly ever
cast one on her), but of want of sympathy, would for some min-
utes alter her whole countenance.
The other point in her character, which made her joyousness
and spirits so delightful, was her strong affection, which was of
a most clinging, fondling nature. When quite a baby this
showed itself in never being easy without touching her mother
when in bed with her; and quite lately she would, when poorly,
fondle for any length of time one of her mother's arms. When
very unwell, her mother lying down beside her seemed to
soothe her in a manner quite different from what it would have
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4403
done to any of our other children. So again she would at
almost any time spend half an hour in arranging my hair,
(< making it, w as she called it, (< beautiful, w or in smoothing, the
poor dear darling! my collar or cuffs — in short, in fondling me.
Besides her joyousness thus tempered, she. was in her man-
ners remarkably cordial, frank, open, straightforward, natural,
and without any shade of reserve. Her whole mind was pure
and transparent. One felt one knew her thoroughly and could
trust her. I always thought that come what might, we should
have had in our old age at least one loving soul which nothing
could have changed. All her movements were vigorous, active,
and usually graceful. When going round the Sand-walk with
me, although I walked fast, yet she often used to go before,
pirouetting in the most elegant way, her dear face bright all the
time with the sweetest smiles. Occasionally she had a pretty
coquettish manner towards me, the memory of which is charm-
ing. She often used exaggerated language, and when I quizzed
her by exaggerating what she had said, how clearly can I now
see the little toss of the head, and exclamation of (< Oh, papa,
what a shame of you ! )} In the last short illness, her conduct in
simple truth was angelic. She never once complained; never
became fretful; was ever considerate of others, and was thankful
in the most gentle, pathetic manner for everything done for her.
When so exhausted that she could hardly speak, she praised
everything that was given her, and said some tea <(was beauti-
fully good. ® When I gave her some water she said, (< I quite
thank you ; w and these I believe were the last precious words ever
addressed by her dear lips to me.
We have lost the joy of the household and the solace of our
old age. She must have known how we loved her. Oh that she
could now know how deeply, how tenderly, we do still and shall
ever love her dear joyous face! Blessings on her!
April 3oth, 1851.
4404 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
RELIGIOUS VIEWS
From <Life and Letters >
JAM much engaged, an old man, and out of health, and I can-
not spare time to answer your questions fully, — nor indeed
can they be answered. Science has nothing to do with
Christ, except in so far as the habit of scientific research makes
a man cautious in admitting evidence. For myself, I do not
believe that there ever has been any revelation. As for a future
life, every man must judge for himself between conflicting vague
probabilities.
During these two years [October 1836 to January 1839] I was
led to think much about religion.
Whilst on board the Beagle I was quite orthodox, and I
remember being heartily laughed at by several of the officers
(though themselves orthodox) for quoting the Bible as an un-
answerable authority on some point of morality. I suppose it
was the novelty of the argument that amused them. But I had
gradually come by this time — i. e., 1836 to 1839 — to see that the
Old Testament was no more to be trusted than the sacred books
of the Hindoos. The question then continually rose before my
mind and would not be banished, — is it credible that if God
were now to make a revelation to the Hindoos, he would permit
it to be connected with the belief in Vishnu, Siva, etc., as
Christianity is connected with the Old Testament ? This appeared
to me utterly incredible.
By further reflecting that the clearest evidence would be
requisite to make any sane man believe in the miracles by which
Christianity is supported, — and that the more we know of the
fixed laws of nature the more incredible do miracles become, —
that the men at that time were ignorant and credulous to a
degree almost incomprehensible by us, — that the Gospels cannot
be proved to have been written simultaneously with the events,
— that they differ in many important details, far too important,
as it seemed to me, to be admitted as the usual inaccuracies of
eye-witnesses; — by such reflections as these, which I give not as
having the least novelty or value, but as they influenced me, — I
gradually came to disbelieve in Christianity as a divine revela-
tion. The fact that many false religions have spread over large
portions of the earth like wild-fire had some weight with me.
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4405
But I was very unwilling to give up my belief; I feel sure
of this, for I can well remember often and often inventing day-
dreams of old letters between distinguished Romans, and manu-
scripts being discovered at Pompeii or elsewhere, which confirmed
in the most striking manner all that was written in the Gospels.
But I found it more and more difficult, with free scope given to
my imagination, to invent evidence which would suffice to con-
vince me. Thus disbelief crept over me at a very slow rate,
but was at last complete. The rate was so slow that I felt no
distress.
Although I did not think much about the existence of a
personal God until a considerably later period of my life, I will
here give the vague conclusions to which I have been driven.
The old argument from design in Nature, as given by Paley,
which formerly seemed to me so conclusive, fails, now that
the law of natural selection has been discovered. We can no
longer argue that for instance the beautiful hinge of a bivalve
shell must have been made by an intelligent being, like the
hinge of a door by man. There seems to be no more design in
the variability of organic beings, and in the action of natural
selection, than in the course which the wind blows. But I have
discussed this subject at the end of my book on the ( Variations
of Domesticated Animals and Plants } ; and the argument there
given has never, as far as I can see, been answered.
But passing over the endless beautiful adaptations which
we everywhere meet with, it may be asked, How can the gener-
ally beneficent arrangement of the world be accounted for?
Some writers indeed are so much impressed with the amount of
suffering in the world, that they doubt, if we look to all sen-
tient beings, whether there is more of misery or of happiness;
whether the world as a whole is a good or bad one. According
to my judgment happiness decidedly prevails, though this would
be very difficult to prove. If the truth of this conclusion be
granted, it harmonizes well with the effects which we might
expect from natural selection. If all the individuals of any
species were habitually to suffer to an extreme degree, they
would neglect to propagate their kind ; but we have no reason to
believe that this has ever, or at least often, occurred. Some
other considerations moreover lead to the belief that all sen-
tient beings have been formed so as to enjoy, as a general rule,
happiness.
4406 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
Every one who believes as I do, that all the corporeal and
mental organs (excepting those which are neither advantageous
nor disadvantageous to the possessor) of all beings have been
developed through natural selection, or the survival of the fittest,
together with use or habit, will admit that these organs have
been formed so that their possessors may compete successfully
with other beings, and thus increase in number. Now an animal
may be led to pursue that course of action which is most bene-
ficial to the species by suffering, such as pain, hunger, thirst,
and fear; or by pleasure, as in eating and drinking, and in the
propagation of the species, etc. ; or by both means combined, as
in the search for food. But pain or suffering of any kind, if
long continued, causes depression and lessens the power of action,
yet is well adapted to make a creature guard itself against any
great or sudden evil. Pleasurable sensations, on the other hand,
may be long continued without any depressing effect; on the
contrary, they stimulate the whole system to increased action.
Hence it has come to pass that most or all sentient beings
have been developed in such a manner, through natural selec-
tion, that pleasurable sensations serve as their habitual guides.
We see this in the pleasure from exertion, even occasionally from
great exertion of the body or mind, — in the pleasure of our
daily meals, and especially in the pleasure derived from sociabil-
ity, and from loving our families. The sum of such pleasures
as these, which are habitual or frequently recurrent, give, as I
can hardly doubt, to most sentient beings an excess of happi-
ness over misery, although many occasionally suffer much. Such
suffering is quite compatible with the belief in natural selec-
tion, which is not perfect in its action, but tends only to ren-
der each species as successful as possible in the battle for life
with other species, in wonderfully complex and changing circum-
stances.
That there is much suffering in the world, no one disputes.
Some have attempted to explain this with reference to man by
imagining that it serves for his moral improvement. But the
number of men in the world is as nothing compared with that
of all other sentient beings, and they often suffer greatly with-
out any moral improvement. This very old argument from the
existence of suffering against the existence of an intelligent First
Cause seems to me a strong one; whereas, as just remarked,
the presence of much suffering agrees well with the view that
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4407
all organic beings have been developed through variation and
natural selection.
At the present day, the most usual argument for the exist-
ence of an intelligent God is drawn from the deep inward con-
viction and feelings which are experienced by most persons.
Formerly I was led by feelings such as those just referred to
(although I do not think that the religious sentiment was ever
strongly developed in me), to the firm conviction of the existence
of God and of the immortality of the soul. In my Journal I
wrote that whilst standing in the midst of the grandeur of a
Brazilian forest, <( it is not possible to give an adequate idea of
the higher feelings of wonder, admiration, and devotion, which
fill and elevate the mind.8 I well remember my conviction that
there is more in man than the mere breath of his body. But
now the grandest scenes would not cause any such convictions
and feelings to rise in my mind. It may be truly said that I am
like a man who has become color-blind, and the universal belief
by men of the existence of redness makes my present loss of
perception of not the least value as evidence. This argument
would be a valid one if all men of all races had the same inward
conviction of the existence of one God; but we know that this
is very far from being the case. Therefore I cannot see that
such inward convictions and feelings are of any weight as evi-
dence of what really exists. The state of mind which grand
scenes formerly excited in me, and which was intimately con-
nected with a belief in God, did not essentially differ from that
which is often called the sense of sublimity; and however diffi-
ciilt it may be to explain the genesis of this sense, it can hardly
be advanced as an argument for the existence of God, any more
than the powerful though vague and similar feelings excited by
music.
With respect to immortality, nothing shows me [so clearly]
how strong and almost instinctive a belief it is, as the consid-
eration of the view now held by most physicists, namely, that
the sun with all the planets will in time grow too cold for life,
unless indeed some great body dashes into the sun, and thus
gives it fresh life. Believing as I do that man in the distant
future will be a far more perfect creature than he now is, it is
an intolerable thought that he and all other sentient beings
are doomed to complete annihilation after such long-continued
slow progress. To those who fully admit the immortality of
44o8 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
the human soul, the destruction of our world will not appear so
dreadful.
Another source of conviction in the existence of God, con-
nected with the reason, and not with the feelings, impresses me
as having much more weight. This follows from the extreme
difficulty or rather impossibility of conceiving this immense and
wonderful universe, including man, with his capacity of looking
far backward and far into futurity, as the result of blind chance
or necessity. When thus reflecting I feel compelled to look to a
First Cause, having an intelligent mind in some degree anal-
ogous to that of man; and I deserve to be called a Theist.
This conclusion was strong in my mind about the time, as far
as I can remember, when I wrote the ( Origin of Species >; and
it is since that time that it has very gradually, with many
fluctuations, become weaker. But then arises the doubt: Can the
mind of man, which has, as I fully believe, been developed
from a mind as low as that possessed by the lowest animals, be
trusted when it draws such grand conclusions ?
I cannot pretend to throw the least light on such abstruse
problems. The mystery of the beginning of all things is insoluble
by us; and I for one must be content to remain an Agnostic.
C. DARWIN TO MISS JULIA WEDGWOOD: ON DESIGN
From < Life and Letters >
JULY nth [1861].
SOME one has sent us ( Macmillan, * and I must tell you how
much I admire your article; though at the same time I
must confess that I could not clearly follow you in some
parts, which probably is in main part due to my not being at all
accustomed to metaphysical trains of thought. I think that you
understand my book perfectly, and that I find a very rare event
with my critics. The ideas in the last page have several times
vaguely crossed my mind. Owing to several correspondents I
have been led lately to think, or rather to try to think, over
some of the chief points discussed by you. But the result has
been with me a maze — something like thinking on the origin of
evil, to which you allude. The mind refuses to look at this
universe, being what it is, without having been designed; yet
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4409
where one would most expect design, — viz., in the structure of
a sentient being, — the more I think on the subject, the less I
can see proof of design. Asa Gray and some others look at each
variation, or at least at each beneficial variation (which A. Gray
would compare with the rain-drops which do not fall on the sea,
but on to the land to fertilize it), as having been providentially
designed. Yet when I asked him whether he looks at each
variation in the rock- pigeon, by which man has made by accumu-
lation a pouter or fantail pigeon, as providentially designed for
man's amusement, he does not know what to answer; and if he
or any one admits [that] these variations are accidental, as far
as purpose is concerned (of course not accidental as to their
cause or origin), then I can see no reason why he should rank
the accumulated variations by which the beautifully adapted
woodpecker has been formed, as providentially designed. For it
would be easy to imagine the enlarged crop of the pouter, or
tail of the fantail, as of some use to birds in a state of nature,
having peculiar habits of life. These are the considerations
which perplex me about design; but whether you will care to
hear them, I know not. ...
[On the subject of design, he wrote (July 1860) to Dr.
Gray:—]
One word more on <( designed laws w and (< undesigned- results. w
I see a bird which I want for food, take my gun and kill it; I
do this designedly. An innocent and good man stands under a
tree and is killed by a flash of lightning. Do you believe (and
I really should like to hear) that God designedly killed this man ?
Many or most persons do believe this; I can't and don't. If you
believe so, do you believe that when a swallow snaps up a gnat,
that God designed that that particular swallow should snap up
that particular gnat at that particular instant ? I believe that
the man and the gnat are in the same predicament. If the
death of neither man nor gnat is designed, I see no good
reason to believe that their first birth or production should be
necessarily designed.
44 10 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
CORRESPONDENCE
From <The Life and Letters >
C. DARWIN TO J. D. HOOKER
DOWN, February 24th [1863].
My Dear Hooker:
I AM astonished at your note. I have not seen the Athenaeum,
but I have sent for it, and may get it to-morrow; and will
then say what I think.
I have read Lyell's book [( The Antiquity of Man >]. The
whole certainly struck me as a compilation, but of the highest
class; for when possible the facts have been verified on the spot,
making it almost an original work. The Glacial chapters seem
to me best, and in parts magnificent. I could hardly judge about
Man, as all the gloss of novelty was completely worn off. But
certainly the aggregation of the evidence produced a very strik-
ing effect on my mind. The chapter comparing language and
changes of species seems most ingenious and interesting. He has
shown great skill in picking out salient points in the argument
for change of species; but I am deeply disappointed (I do not
mean personally) to find that his timidity prevents him giving
any judgment. . . . From all my communications with him,
I must ever think that he has really entirely lost faith in the
immutability of species; and yet one of his strongest sentences is
nearly as follows : w If it should ever be rendered highly probable
that species change by variation and natural selection, M etc., etc.
I had hoped he would have guided the public as far as his own
belief went. . . . One thing does please me on this subject,
that he seems to appreciate your work. No doubt the public or
a part may be induced to think that as he gives to us a larger
space than to Lamarck, he must think there is something in our
views. When reading the brain chapter, it struck me forcibly
that if he had said openly that he believed in change of species,
and as a consequence that man was derived from some quadru-
manous animal, it would have been very proper to have discussed
by compilation the differences in the most important organ, viz.,
the brain. As it is, the chapter seems to me to come in rather
by the head and shoulders. I do not think (but then I am as
prejudiced as Falconer and Huxley, or more so) that it is too
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
44"
severe. It struck me as given with judicial force. It might per-
haps be said with truth that he had no business to judge on a
subject on which he knows nothing; but compilers must do this
to a certain extent. (You know I value and rank high com-
pilers, being one myself.) I have taken you at your word, and
scribbled at great length. If I get the Athenaeum to-morrow, I
will add my impression of Owen's letter. . . .
The Lyells are coming here on Sunday evening to stay till
Wednesday. I dread it, but I must say how much disappointed
I am that he has not spoken out on species, still less on man.
And the best of the joke is that he thinks he has acted with the
courage of a martyr of old. I hope I may have taken an exag-
gerated view of his timidity, and shall particularly be glad of
your opinion on this head. When I got his book I turned over
the pages, and saw he had discussed the subject of species, and
said that I thought he would do more to convert the public than
all of us; and now (which makes the case worse for me) I must,
in common honesty, retract. I wish to Heaven he had said not
a word on the subject.
WEDNESDAY MORNING. — I have read the Athenaeum. I do
not think Lyell will be nearly so much annoyed as you expect.
The concluding sentence is no doubt very stinging. No one
but a good anatomist could unravel Owen's letter; at least it is
quite beyond me. . . .
Lyell's memory plays him false when he says all anatomists
were astonished at Owen's paper: it was often quoted with
approbation. I well remember Lyell's admiration at this new
classification! (Do not repeat this.) I remember it because,
though I knew nothing whatever about the brain, I felt a con-
viction that a classification thus founded on a single character
would break down, and it seemed to me a great error not to
separate more completely the Marsupialia.
What an accursed evil it is that there should be all this quar-
reling, within what ought to be the peaceful realms of science.
I will go to my own present subject of inheritance and forget
it all for a time. Farewell, my dear old friend.
C. DARWIN.
4412 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
C. DARWIN TO T. H. HUXLEY
OCTOBER 3d, 1864.
My Dear Huxley :
IF I do not pour out my admiration of your article on Kol-
liker, I shall explode. I never read anything better done. I
had much wished his article answered, and indeed thought of
doing so myself, so that I considered several points. You have
hit on all, and on some in addition, and oh, by Jove, how well
you have done it! As I read on and came to point after point
on which I had thought, I could not help jeering and scoffing at
myself, to see how infinitely better you had done it than I could
have done. Well, if any one who does not understand Natural
Selection will read this, he will be a blockhead if it is not as
clear as daylight. Old Flourens was hardly worth the powder
and shot; but how capitally you bring in about the Academi-
cian, and your metaphor of the sea-sand is inimitable.
It is a marvel to me how you can resist becoming a regular
reviewer. Well, I have exploded now, and it has done me a
deal of good.
C. DARWIN TO E. RAY LANKESTER
DOWN, March i5th [1870].
My Dear Sir :
I DO not know whether you will consider me a very trouble-
some man, but I have just finished your book, and cannot
resist telling you how the whole has much interested me. No
doubt, as you say, there must be much speculation on such a
subject, and certain results cannot be reached; but all your
views are highly suggestive, and to my mind that is high
praise. I have been all the more interested, as I am now
writing on closely allied though not quite identical points. I
was pleased to see you refer to my much despised child,
( Pangenesis, } who I think will some day, under some better
nurse, turn out a fine stripling. It has also pleased me to
see how thoroughly you appreciate (and I do not think that
this is general with the men of science) H. Spencer; I sus-
pect that hereafter he will be looked at as by far the greatest
living philosopher in England; perhaps equal to any that have
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4413
lived. But I have no business to trouble you with my notions.
With sincere thanks for the interest which your work has
given me, I remain, yours very faithfully,
CH. DARWIN.
FROM A LETTER TO J. D. HOOKER
CLIFF COTTAGE, BOURNEMOUTH, September 26th, 1862.
My Dear Hooker:
Do NOT read this till you have leisure. If that blessed
moment ever comes, I should be very glad to have your
opinion on the subject of this letter. I am led to the opin-
ion that Drosera must have diffused matter in organic con-
nection, closely analogous to the nervous matter of animals.
When the glans of one of the papillae or tentacles in its natural
position is supplied with nitrogenized fluid and certain other
stimulants, or when loaded with an extremely slight weight, or
when struck several times with a needle, the pedicel bends near
its base in under one minute. These varied stimulants are con-
veyed down the pedicel by some means; it cannot be vibration,
for drops of fluid put on quite quietly cause the movement; it
cannot be absorption of the fluid from cell to cell, for I can see
the rate of absorption, which, though quick, is far slower, and in
Dionsea the transmission is instantaneous; analogy from animals
would point to transmission through nervous matter. Reflecting
on the rapid power of absorption in the glans, the extreme
sensibility of the whole organ, and the conspicuous movement
caused by varied stimulants, I have tried a number of substances
which are not caustic or corrosive, . . . but most of which
are known to have a remarkable action on the nervous matter
of animals. You will see the results in the inclosed paper. As
the nervous matter of different animals is differently acted on
by the same poisons, one would not expect the same action on
plants and animals; only, if plants have diffused nervous matter,
some degree of analogous action. And this is partially the case.
Considering these experiments, together with the previously
made remarks on the functions of the parts, I cannot avoid the
conclusion that Drosera possesses matter at least in some degree
analogous in constitution and function to nervous matter. Now
do tell me what you think, as far as you can judge from my
abstract. Of course many more experiments would have to be
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
tried; but in former years I tried on the whole leaf, instead of
on separate glands, a number of innocuous substances, such as
sugar, gum, starch, etc., and they produced no effect. Your
opinion will aid me in deciding some future year in going on
with this subject. I should not have thought it worth attempt-
ing, but I had nothing on earth to do.
My dear Hooker, yours very sincerely,
CH. DARWIN.
P. S. — We return home on Monday 28th. Thank Heaven!
THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE
From the ( Origin of Species >
BEFORE entering on the subject of this chapter, I must make a
few preliminary remarks, to show how the struggle for
existence bears on Natural Selection. It has been seen in
the last chapter that amongst organic beings in a state of nature
there is some individual variability; indeed, I am not aware that
this has ever been disputed. It is immaterial for us whether
a multitude of doubtful forms be called species, or sub-species,
or varieties; what rank, for instance, the two or three hundred
doubtful forms of British plants are entitled to hold, if the exist-
ence of any well-marked varieties be admitted. But the mere
existence of individual variability and of some few well-marked
varieties, though necessary as the foundation for the work, helps
us but little in understanding how species arise in nature. How
have all those exquisite adaptations of one part of the organiza-
tion to another part, and to the conditions of life, and of one
organic being to another being, been perfected ? We see these
beautiful co-adaptations most plainly in the woodpecker and the
mistletoe; and only a little less plainly in the humblest parasite
which clings to the hairs of a quadruped or feathers of a bird;
in the structure of the beetle which dives through the water; in
the plumed seed which is wafted by the gentlest breeze: in
short, we see beautiful adaptations everywhere and in every part
of the organic world.
Again, it may be asked, how is it that varieties, which I have
called incipient species, become ultimately converted into good
and distinct species, which in most cases obviously differ from
each other far more than do the varieties of the same species ?
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4415
How do those groups of species, which constitute what are
called distinct genera, and which differ from each other more
than do the species of the same genus, arise ? All these results,
as we shall more fully see in the next chapter, follow from the
struggle for life. Owing to this struggle, variations, however
slight and from whatever cause proceeding, if they be in any
degree profitable to the individuals of a species, in their infi-
nitely complex relations to other organic beings and to their
physical conditions of life, will tend to the preservation of such
individuals, and will generally be inherited by the offspring.
The offspring also will thus have a better chance of surviving;
for of the many individuals of any species which are periodically
born, but a small number can survive. I have called this prin-
ciple, by which each slight variation, if useful, is preserved, by
the term Natural Selection, in order to mark its relation to
man's power of selection. But the expression often used by Mr.
Herbert Spencer, of the Survival of the Fittest, is more accurate
and is sometimes equally convenient. We have seen that man
by selection can certainly produce great results, and can adapt
organic beings to his own uses, through the accumulation of
slight but useful variations given to him by the hand of Nature.
But Natural Selection, as we shall hereafter see, is a power
incessantly ready for action, and is as immeasurably superior
to man's feeble efforts as the works of Nature are to those
of Art.
We will now discuss in a little more detail the struggle for
existence. In my future work this subject will be treated, as it
well deserves, at greater length. The elder De Candolle and
Lyell have largely and philosophically shown that all organic
beings are exposed to severe competition. In regard to plants,
no one has treated this subject with more spirit and ability than
W. Herbert, Dean of Manchester, evidently the result of his
great horticultural knowledge. Nothing is easier than to admit
in words the truth of the universal struggle for life, or more
difficult — at least I have found it so — than constantly to bear
this conclusion in mind. Yet unless it be thoroughly ingrained
in the mind, the whole economy of nature, with every fact on
distribution, rarity, abundance, extinction, and variation, will be
dimly seen or quite misunderstood. We behold the face of
nature bright with gladness, we often see superabundance of
food; we do not see, or we forget, that the birds which are idly
4416
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
singing round us mostly live on insects or seeds, and are thus
constantly destroying life; or we forget how largely these song-
sters, or their eggs, or their nestlings, are destroyed by birds
and beasts of prey; we do not always bear in mind that though
food may be now superabundant, it is not so at all seasons of
each recurring year.
I should premise that I use this term in a large and meta-
phorical sense, including dependence of one being on another,
and including (which is more important) not only the life of the
individual, but success in leaving progeny. Two canine ani-
mals, in a time of dearth, may be truly said to struggle with
each other which shall get food and live. But a plant on the
edge of a desert is said to struggle for life against the drought,
though more properly it should be said to be dependent on the
moisture. A plant which annually produces a thousand seeds, of
which only one on an average conies to maturity, may be more
truly said to struggle with the plants of the same and other
kinds which already clothe the ground. The mistletoe is depend-
ent on the apple and a few other trees, but can only in a far-
fetched sense be said to struggle with these trees, for if too
many of these parasites grow on the same tree, it languishes
and dies. But several seedling mistletoes, growing close to-
gether on the same branch, may more truly be said to struggle
with each other. As the mistletoe is disseminated by birds, its
existence depends on them; and it may metaphorically be said
to struggle with other fruit-bearing plants, in tempting the
birds to devour and thus disseminate its seeds. In these several
senses, which pass into each other, I use for convenience's sake
the general term of Struggle for Existence.
THE GEOMETRICAL RATIO OF INCREASE
From ( Origin of Species >
A STRUGGLE for existence inevitably follows from the high rate
at which all organic beings tend to increase. Every being
which during its natural lifetime produces several eggs or
seeds must suffer destruction during some period of its life, and
during some season or occasional year; otherwise, on the princi-
ple of geometrical increase, its numbers would quickly become
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4417
so inordinately great that no country could support the product.
Hence, as more individuals are produced than can possibly sur-
vive, there must in every case be a struggle for existence, either
one individual with another of the same species, or with the
individuals of distinct species, or with the physical conditions of
life. It is the doctrine of Malthus applied with manifold force
to the whole animal and vegetable kingdoms; for in this case
there can be no artificial increase of food, and no prudential
restraint from marriage. Although some species may be now
increasing, more or less rapidly, in numbers, all cannot do so,
for the world would not hold them.
There is no exception to the rule that every organic being
naturally increases at so high a rate that if not destroyed, the
earth would soon be covered by the progeny of a single pair.
Even slow-breeding man has doubled in twenty-five years; and
at this rate, in less than a thousand years there would literally
not be standing-room for his progeny. Linnaeus has calculated
that if an annual plant produced only two seeds — and there is
no plant so unproductive as this — and their seedlings next year
produced two, and so on, then in twenty years there would be a
million plants. The elephant is reckoned the slowest breeder of
all known animals, and I have taken some pains to estimate its
probable minimum rate of natural increase; it will be safest to
assume that it begins breeding when thirty years old: and goes
on breeding till ninety years old, bringing forth six young in
the interval, and surviving till one hundred years old: if this be
so, after a period of from 740 to 750 years there would be
nearly nineteen million elephants alive, descended from the first
pair.
But we have better evidence on this subject than mere theo-
retical calculations, namely, the numerous recorded cases of the
astonishingly rapid increase of various animals in a state of
nature, when circumstances have been favorable to them during
two or three following seasons. Still more striking is the evi-
dence from our domestic animals of many kinds which have run
wild in several parts of the world; if the statements of the rate of
increase of slow-breeding cattle and horses in South America, and
latterly in Australia, had not been well authenticated, they would
have been incredible. So it is with plants; cases could be given
of introduced plants which have become common throughout
whole islands in a period of less than ten years. Several of
vm — 277
4418
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
the plants, such as the cardoon and a tall thistle, which are
now the commonest over the wide plains of La Plata, clothing
square leagues of surface almost to the exclusion of every other
plant, have been introduced from Europe; and there are plants
which now range in India, as I hear from Falconer, from Cape
Comorin to the Himalaya, which have been imported from.
America since its discovery. In such cases — and endless others
could be given — no one supposes that the fertility of the animals
or plants has been suddenly and temporarily increased in any
sensible degree. The obvious explanation is that the conditions
of life have been highly favorable, and that there has conse-
quently been less destruction of the old and young, and that
nearly all the young have been enabled to breed. Their geo-
metrical ratio of increase, the result of which never fails to be
surprising, simply explains their extraordinarily rapid increase
and wide diffusion in their new homes.
In a state of nature almost every full-grown plant annually
produces seed, and amongst animals there are very few which do
not annually pair. Hence we may confidently assert that all
plants and animals are tending to increase at a geometrical
ratio, — that all would rapidly stock every station in which they
could anyhow exist, — and that this geometrical tendency to in-
crease must be checked by destruction at some period of life.
Our familiarity with the larger domestic animals tends, I think,
to mislead us: we see no great destruction falling on them, but
we do not keep in mind that thousands are annually slaughtered
for food, and that in a state of nature an equal number would
have somehow to be disposed of.
The only difference between organisms which annually pro-
duce eggs or seeds by the thousand, and those which produce
extremely few, is that the slow breeders would require a few
more years to people, under favorable conditions, a whole dis-
trict, let it be ever so large. The condor lays a couple of eggs
and the ostrich a score, and yet in the same country the condor
may be the more numerous of the two; the Fulmar petrel lays
but one egg, yet it is believed to be the most numerous bird in
the world. One fly deposits hundreds of eggs, and another, like
the hippobosca, a single one ; but this difference does not deter-
mine how many individuals of the two species can be supported
in a district. A large number of eggs is of some importance to
those species which depend on a fluctuating amount of food, for
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4419
it allows them rapidly to increase in number. But the real
importance of a large number of eggs or seeds is to make up for
much destruction at some period of life; and this period in the
great majority of cases is an early one. If an animal can in any
way protect its own eggs or young, a small number may be
produced, and yet the average stock be fully kept up; but if
many eggs or young are destroyed, many must be produced, or
the species will become extinct. It would suffice to keep up the
full number of a tree which lived on an average for a thousand
years, if a single seed were produced once in a thousand years,
supposing that this seed were never destroyed, and could be
insured to germinate in a fitting place. So that, in all cases, the
average number of any animal or plant depends only indirectly
on the number of its eggs or seeds.
In looking at nature, it is most necessary to keep the fore-
going considerations always in mind — never to forget that every
single organic being may be said to be striving to the utmost to
increase in numbers; that each lives by a struggle at some period
of its life; that heavy destruction inevitably falls either on the
young or old, during each generation or at recurrent intervals.
Lighten any check, mitigate the destruction ever so little, and
the number of the species will almost instantaneously increase to
any amount.
OF THE NATURE OF THE CHECKS TO INCREASE
From (The Origin of Species >
THE causes which check the natural tendency of each species
to increase are most obscure. Look at the most vigorous
species: by as much as it swarms in numbers, by so much
will it tend to increase still further. We know not exactly
what the checks are, even in a single instance. Nor will this
surprise any one who reflects how ignorant we are on this
head, even in regard to mankind, although so incomparably bet-
ter known than any other animal. This subject of the checks to
increase has been ably treated by several authors, and I hope in
a future work to discuss it at considerable length, more especially
in regard to the feral animals of South America. Here I will
make only a few remarks, just to recall to the reader's mind some
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
of the chief points. Eggs or very young animals seem generally
to suffer most, but this is not invariably the case. With plants
there is a vast destruction of seeds; but from some observations
which I have made, it appears that the seedlings suffer most,
from germinating in ground already thickly stocked with other
plants. Seedlings also are destroyed in vast numbers by various
enemies: for instance, on a piece of ground three feet long and
two wide, dug and cleared, and where there could be no choking
from other plants, I marked all the seedlings of our native weeds
as they came up, and out of 357 no less than 295 were destroyed,
chiefly by slugs and insects. If turf which has long been mown
— and the case would be the same with turf closely browsed by
quadrupeds — be let to grow, the more vigorous plants gradually
kill the less vigorous though fully grown plants; thus out of
twenty species growing on a little plot of mown turf (three feet
by four) nine species perished, from the other species being
allowed to grow up freely.
The amount of food for each species of course gives the ex-
treme limit to which each can increase; but very frequently it is
not the obtaining food, but the serving as prey to other animals,
which determines the average numbers of a species. Thus there
seems to be little doubt that the stock of partridges, grouse, and
hares in any large estate depends chiefly on the destruction of
vermin. If not one head of game were shot during the next
twenty years in England, and at the same time if no vermin
were destroyed, there would in all probability be less game than
at present, although hundreds of thousands of game animals are
now annually shot. On the other hand, in some cases, as with
the elephant, none are destroyed by beasts of prey; for even the
tiger in India most rarely dares to attack a young elephant pro-
tected by its dam.
Climate plays an important part in determining the average
numbers of a species, and periodical seasons of extreme cold or
drought seem to be the most effective of all checks. I estimated
(chiefly from the greatly reduced numbers of nests in the spring)
that the winter of 1854-5 destroyed four-fifths of the birds in my
own grounds; and this is a tremendous destruction, when we
remember that ten per cent, is an extraordinarily severe mor-
tality from epidemics with man. The action of climate seems at
first sight to be quite independent of the struggle for existence;
but in so far as climate chiefly acts in reducing food, it brings
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN 4421
on the most severe struggle between the individuals, whether of
the same or of distinct species, which subsist on the same kind
of food. Even when climate, — for instance, extreme cold, — acts
directly, it will be the least vigorous individuals, or those which
have got least food through the advancing winter, which will
suffer most.
When we travel from south to north, or from a damp region
to a dry, we invariably see some species gradually getting rarer
and rarer, and finally disappearing; and the change of climate
being conspicuous, we are tempted to attribute the whole effect
to its direct action. But this is a false view; we forget that
each species, even where it most abounds, is constantly suffering
enormous destruction at some period of its life, from enemies
or from competitors for the same place and food; and if these
enemies or competitors be in the least degree favored by any
slight change of climate, they will increase in numbers; and as
e'ach area is already fully stocked with inhabitants, the other spe-
cies must decrease. When we travel southward and see a species
decreasing in numbers, we may feel sure that the cause lies quite
as much in other species being favored as in this one being hurt.
So it is when we travel northward; but in a somewhat lesser
degree, for the number of species of all kinds, and therefore of
competitors, decreases northward; hence in going northward, or
in ascending a mountain, we far oftener meet with stunted
forms, due to the directly injurious action of climate, than we
do in proceeding southward or in descending a mountain. When
we reach the arctic regions, or snow-capped summits, or abso-
lute deserts, the struggle for life is almost exclusively with the
elements.
That climate acts in main part indirectly by favoring other
species, we clearly see in the prodigious number of plants which
in our gardens can perfectly well endure our climate, but which
never become naturalized, for they cannot compete with our
native plants nor resist destruction by our native animals.
When a species, owing to highly favorable circumstances,
increases inordinately in numbers in a small tract, epidemics—
at least, this seems generally to occur with our game animals —
often ensue; and here we have a limiting check independent of
the struggle for life. But even some of these so-called epidemics
appear to be due to parasitic worms, which have from some
cause, possibly in part through facility of diffusion amongst the
4422
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
crowded animals, been disproportionally favored: and here comes
in a sort of struggle between the parasite and its prey.
On the other hand, in many cases, a large stock of individ-
uals of the same species, relatively to the numbers of its ene-
mies, is absolutely necessary for its preservation. Thus we can
easily raise plenty of corn and rape-seed, etc., in our fields,
because the seeds are in great excess compared with the number
of birds which feed on them; nor can the birds, though having
a superabundance of food at this one season, increase in number
proportionally to the supply of seed, as their numbers are checked
during winter; but any one who has tried, knows how trouble-
some it is to get seed from a few wheat or other such plants in
a garden: I have in this case lost every single seed. This view
of the necessity of a large stock of the same species for its
preservation, explains I believe some singular facts in nature,
such as that of very rare plants being sometimes extremely
abundant in the few spots where they do exist; and that of
some social plants being social, that is, abounding in individuals,
even on the extreme verge of their range. For in such cases,
we may believe that a plant could exist only where the condi-
tions of its life were so favorable that many could exist together
and thus save the species from utter destruction. I should add
that the good effects of inter-crossing, and the ill effects of close
inter-breeding, no doubt come into play in many of these cases;
but I will not here enlarge on this subject.
THE COMPLEX RELATIONS OF ALL ANIMALS AND PLANTS
TO EACH OTHER IN THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE
From the < Origin of Species >
MANY cases are on record, showing how complex and unex-
pected are the checks and relations between organic beings
which have to struggle together in the same country.
I will give only a single instance, which though a simple one
interested me. In Staffordshire, on the estate of a relation
where I had ample means of investigation, there was a large
and extremely barren heath which had never been touched by
the hand of man; but several hundred acres of exactly the
same nature had been inclosed twenty-five years previously
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4423
and planted with Scotch fir. The change in the native vege-
tation of the planted part of the heath was most remarkable,
more than is generally seen in passing from one quite differ-
ent soil to another: not only the proportional numbers of the
heath-plants were wholly changed, but twelve species of plants
(not counting grasses and carices) flourished in the plantations,
which could not be found on the heath. The effect on the
insects must have been still greater, for six insectivorous birds
were very common in the plantations which were not to be
seen on the heath; and the heath was frequented by two or
three distinct insectivorous birds. Here we see how potent has
been the effect of the introduction of a single tree, nothing
whatever else having been done, with the exception of the land
having been inclosed so that cattle could not enter.
But how important an element inclosure is, I plainly saw near
Farnham in Surrey. Here there are extensive heaths with a
few clumps of old Scotch firs on the distant hill-tops: within the
last ten years large spaces have been inclosed, and self-sown
firs are now springing up in multitudes, so close together that
all cannot live. When I ascertained that these young trees had
not been sown or planted, I was so much surprised at their
numbers that I went to several points of view, whence I could
examine hundreds of acres of the uninclosed heath, and literally
I could not see a single Scotch fir except the old planted clumps.
But on looking closely between the stems of the heath, I found
a multitude of seedlings and little trees which had been perpetu-
ally browsed down by the cattle. In one square yard, at a
point some hundred yards distant from one of the old clumps,
I counted thirty-two little trees; and one of them, with twenty-
six rings of growth, had during many years tried to raise its
head above the stems of the heath, and had failed. No wonder
that as soon as the land was inclosed it became thickly clothed
with vigorously growing young firs. Yet the heath was so
extremely barren and so extensive that no one would ever
have imagined that cattle would have so closely and effectually
searched it for food.
Here we see that cattle absolutely determine the existence of
the Scotch fir; but in several parts of the world insects deter-
mine the existence of cattle. Perhaps Paraguay offers the most
curious instance of this; for here neither cattle nor horses nor
dogs have ever run wild, though they swarm southward and
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
northward in a feral state; and Azara and Rengger have shown
that this is caused by the greater number in Paraguay of a cer-
tain fly, which lays its eggs in the navels of these animals when
first born. The increase of these flies, numerous as they are,
must be habitually checked by some means, probably by other
parasitic insects. Hence if certain insectivorous birds were to de-
crease in Paraguay, the parasitic insects would probably increase;
and this would lessen the number of the navel-frequenting
flies; then cattle and horses would become feral, and this would
certainly greatly alter (as indeed I have observed in parts of
South America) the vegetation; this again would largely affect
the insects; and this, as we have just seen in Staffordshire, the
insectivorous birds, — and so onwards in ever increasing circles of
complexity. Not that under nature the relations will ever be as
simple as this. Battle within battle must be continually recur-
ring with varying success; and yet in the long run the forces
are so nicely balanced that the face of nature remains for long
periods of time uniform, though assuredly the merest trifle would
give the victory to one organic being over another. Neverthe-
less, so profound is our ignorance and so high our presumption,
that we marvel when we hear of the extinction of an organic
being; and as we do not see the cause, we invoke cataclysms to
desolate the world, or invent laws on the duration of the forms
of life!
OF NATURAL SELECTION; OR THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
From the ( Origin of Species >
SEVERAL writers have misapprehended or objected to the term
Natural Selection. Some have even imagined that Natiiral
Selection induces variability, whereas it implies only the
preservation of such variations as arise and are beneficial to the
being under its conditions of life. No one objects to agricultur-
ists speaking of the potent effects of man's selection; and in this
case the individual differences given by nature, which man for
some object selects, must of necessity first occur. Others have
objected that the term selection implies conscious choice in the
animals which become modified; and it has even been urged that
as plants have no volition, Natural Selection is not applicable to
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4425
them! In the literal sense of the word, no doubt, Natural Selec-
tion is a false term; but who ever objected to chemists speaking
of the elective affinities of the various elements ? — and yet an
acid cannot strictly be said to elect the base with which it in
preference combines. It has been said that I speak of Natural
Selection as an active power or Deity; but who objects to an
author speaking of the attraction of gravity as ruling the move-
ments of the planets ? Every one knows what is meant and is
implied by such metaphorical expressions; and they are almost
necessary for brevity. So again it is difficult to avoid personify-
ing the word Nature; but I mean by nature only the aggregate
action and product of many natural laws, and by laws the
sequence of events as ascertained by us. With a little famil-
iarity such superficial objections will be forgotten.
We shall best understand the probable course of Natural
Selection by taking the case of a country undergoing some slight
physical change; for instance, of climate. The proportional num-
bers of its inhabitants will almost immediately undergo a change,
and some species will probably become extinct. We may con-
clude, from what we have seen of the intimate and complex
manner in which the inhabitants of each country are bound
together, that any change in the numerical proportions of the
inhabitants, independently of the change of climate itself, would
seriously affect the others. If the country were open on its bor-
ders, new forms would certainly immigrate, and this would
likewise seriously disturb the relations of some of the former
inhabitants. Let it be remembered how powerful the influence
of a single introduced tree or mammal has been shown to be.
But in the case of an island, or of a country partly surrounded
by barriers, into which new and better adapted forms could not
freely enter, we should then have places in the economy of
nature which would assuredly be better filled up if some of the
original inhabitants were in some manner modified; for had the
area been open to immigration, these same places would have
been seized on by intruders. In such cases, slight modifications
which in any way favored the individuals of any species by bet-
ter adapting them to their altered conditions, would tend to be
preserved; and Natural Selection would have free scope for the
work of improvement.
We have good reason to believe, as shown in the first chap-
ter, that changes in the conditions of life give a tendency to
4426
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
increased variability; and in the foregoing cases the conditions
have changed, and this would manifestly be favorable to Natural
Selection by affording a better chance of the occurrence of prof-
itable variations. Unless such occur, Natural Selection can do
nothing. Under the term of <( variations, w it must never be for-
gotten that mere individual differences are included. As man
can produce a great result with his domestic animals and plants
by adding up in any given direction individual differences, so
could Natural Selection, but far more easily from having incom-
parably longer time for action. Nor do I believe that any great
physical change, as of climate, or any unusual degree of isola-
tion to check immigration, is necessary in order that new and
unoccupied places should be left, for Natural Selection to fill up
by improving some of the varying inhabitants. For as all the
inhabitants of each country are struggling together with nicely
balanced forces, extremely slight modifications in the structiire or
habits of one species would often give it an advantage over
others; and still further modifications -of the same kind would
often still further increase the advantage, as long as the species
continued under the same conditions of life and profited by sim-
ilar means of subsistence and defense. No country can be
named, in which all the native inhabitants are now so perfectly
adapted to each other and to the physical conditions under which
they live, that none of them could be still better adapted or im-
proved; for in all countries the natives have been so far con-
quered by naturalized productions that they have allowed some
foreigners to take firm possession of the land. And as foreign-
ers have thus in every country beaten some of the natives, we
may safely conclude that the natives might have been modified
with advantage, so as to have better resisted the intruders.
As man can produce, and certainly has produced, a great
result by his methodical and unconscious means of selection, what
may not Natural Selection effect ? Man can act only on external
and visible characters; Nature, if I may be allowed to personify
the natural preservation or survival of the fittest, cares nothing
for appearances, except in so far as they are useful to any being.
She can act on every internal organ, on every shade of constitu-
tional difference, on the whole machinery of life. Man selects
only for his own good; Nature only for that of the being which
she tends. Every selected character is fully exercised by her, as
is implied by the fact of their selection. Man keeps the natives
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4427
of many climates in the same country: he seldom exercises each
selected character in some peculiar and fitting manner; he feeds
a long and a short-beaked pigeon on the same food; he does not
exercise a long-backed or long-legged quadruped in any peculiar
manner; he exposes sheep with long and short wool to the same
climate. He does not allow the most vigorous males to struggle
for the females. He does not rigidly destroy all inferior animals,
but protects during each varying season, as far as lies in his
power, all his productions. He often begins his selection by some
half-monstrous form; or at least by some modification prominent
enough to catch the eye or to be plainly useful to him. Under
Nature, the slightest differences of structure or constitution may
well turn the nicely balanced scale in the struggle for life, and
so be preserved. How fleeting are the wishes and efforts of
man! How short his time, and consequently how poor will be
his results, compared with those accumulated by Nature during
whole geological periods! Can we wonder then that Nature's
productions should be far (< truer * in character than man's pro-
ductions; that they should be infinitely better adapted to the most
complex conditions of life, and should plainly bear the stamp of
far higher workmanship ?
It may metaphorically be said that Natural Selection is daily
and hourly scrutinizing, throughout the world, the slightest varia-
tions; rejecting those that are bad, preserving and adding up all
that are good; silently and insensibly working, whenever and
wherever opportunity offers, at the improvement of each organic
being in relation to its organic and inorganic .conditions of life.
We see nothing of these slow changes in progress until the hand
of time has marked the lapse of ages, and then so imperfect is
our view into long-past geological ages, that we see only that the
forms of life are now different from what they formerly were.
In order that any great amount of modification should be
effected in a species, a variety when once formed must again,
perhaps after a long interval of time, vary or present individual
differences of the same favorable nature as before; and these
must be again preserved, and so onward step by step. Seeing
that individual differences of the same kind perpetually recur,
this can hardly be considered as an unwarrantable assumption.
But whether it is true, we can judge only by seeing how far the
hypothesis accords with and explains the general phenomena of
nature. On the other hand, the ordinary belief that the amount
4428
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
of possible variation is a strictly limited quantity, is likewise a
simple assumption.
Although Natural Selection can act only through and for the
good of each being, yet characters and structures, which we are
apt to consider as of very trifling importance, may thus be acted
on. When we see leaf-eating insects green, and bark-feeders
mottled gray; the Alpine ptarmigan white in winter, the red
grouse the color of heather, — we must believe that these tints
are of service to these birds and insects in preserving them from
danger. Grouse, if not destroyed at some period of their lives,
would increase in countless numbers; they are known to suffer
largely from birds of prey; and hawks are guided by eyesight to
their prey — so much so, that on parts of the Continent persons
are warned not to keep white pigeons, as being the most liable
to destruction. Hence Natural Selection might be effective in
giving the proper color to each kind of grouse, and in keeping
that color, when once acquired, true and constant. Nor ought
we to think that the occasional destruction of an animal of any
particular color would produce little effect: we should remember
how essential it is in a flock of white sheep to destroy a lamb
with the faintest trace of black. We have seen how the color
of hogs which feed on the M paint-root w in Virginia, determines
whether they shall live or die. In plants, the down on the
fruit and the color of the flesh are considered by botanists as
characters of the most trifling importance; yet we hear from
an excellent horticulturist, Downing, that in the United States
smooth-skinned fruits suffer far more from a beetle, a curculio,
than those with down; that purple plums suffer far more from a
certain disease than yellow plums; whereas another disease attacks
yellow-fleshed peaches far more than those with other colored
flesh. If with all the aids of art, these slight differences make a
great difference in cultivating the several varieties, assuredly, in
a state of nature, where the trees would have to struggle with
other trees and with a host of enemies, such differences would
effectually settle which variety, whether a smooth or downy, a
yellow or a purple-fleshed fruit, should succeed.
In looking at many small points of difference between species,
which, as far as our ignorance permits us to judge, seem quite
unimportant, we must not forget that climate, food, etc., have no
doubt produced some direct effect. It is also necessary to bear
in mind that owing to the law of correlation, when one part
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
varies, and the variations are accumulated through Natural
Selection, other modifications, often of the most unexpected
nature, will ensue.
As we see that those variations which under domestication
appear at any particular period of life, tend to reappear in the
offspring at the same period; — for instance, in the shape, size,
and flavor of the seeds of the many varieties of our culinary and
agricultural plants; in the caterpillar and cocoon stages of the
varieties of the silkworm; in the eggs of poultry, and in the
color of the down of their chickens; in the horns of our sheep and
cattle when nearly adult; so in a state of nature Natural
Selection will be enabled to act on and modify organic beings at
any age, by the accumulation of variations profitable at that age,
and by their inheritance at a corresponding age. If it profit a
plant to have its seeds more and more widely disseminated by
the wind, I can see no greater difficulty in this being effected
through Natural Selection, than in the cotton-planter increasing
and improving by selection the down in the pods on his cotton-
trees. Natural Selection may modify and adapt the larva of an
insect to a score of contingencies wholly different from those
which concern the mature insect; and these modifications may
effect, through correlation, the structure of the adult. So, con-
versely, modifications in the adult may affect the structure of the
larva; but in all cases Natural Selection will insure that they
shall not be injurious: for if they were so, the species would
become extinct.
Natural Selection will modify the structure of the young in
relation to the parent, and of the parent in relation to the
young. In social animals it will adapt the structure of each
individual for the benefit of the whole community, if the com-
munity profits by the selected change. What Natural Selection
cannot do, is to modify the structure of one species, without
giving it any advantage, for the good of another species; and
though statements to this effect may be found in works of nat-
ural history, I cannot find one case which will bear investigation.
A structure used only once in an animal's life, if of high import-
ance to it, might be modified to any extent by Natural Selection;
for instance, the great jaws possessed by certain insects, used
exclusively for opening the cocoon, or the hard tip to the beak
of unhatched birds, used for breaking the eggs. It has been
asserted that of the best short-beaked tumbler-pigeons a greater
4430 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
number perish in the egg than are able to get out of it; so that
fanciers assist in the act of hatching. Now if Nature had
to make the beak of a full-grown pigeon very short for the
bird's own advantage, the process of modification would be very
slow, and there would be simultaneously the most rigorous selec-
tion of all the young birds within the egg, which had the most
powerful and hardest beaks, for all with weak beaks would inev-
itably perish; or more delicate and more easily broken shells
might be selected, the thickness of the shell being known to
vary like every other structure.
It may be well here to remark that with all beings there
must be much fortuitous destruction, which can have little or no
influence on the course of Natural Selection. For instance, a vast
number of eggs or seeds are annually devoured, and these could
be modified through Natural Selection only if they varied in
some manner which protected them from their enemies. Yet
many of these eggs or seeds would perhaps, if not destroyed,
have yielded individuals better adapted to their conditions of life
than any of those which happened to survive. So again a vast
number of mature animals and plants, whether or not they be
the best adapted to their conditions, must be annually destroyed
by accidental causes, which would not be in the least degree miti-
gated by certain changes of structure or constitution which would
in other ways be beneficial to the species. But let the destruc-
tion of the adults be ever so heavy, if the number which can
exist in any district be not wholly kept down by such causes,
— or again, let the destruction of eggs or seeds be so great that
only a hundredth or a thousandth part are developed, — yet of
those which do survive, the best adapted individuals, supposing
that there is any variability in a favorable direction, will tend
to propagate their kind in larger numbers than the less well
adapted. If the numbers be wholly kept down by the causes
just indicated, as will often have been the case, Natural Selection
will be powerless in certain beneficial directions; but this is no
valid objection to its efficiency at other times and in other ways;
for we are far from having any reason to suppose that many
species ever undergo modification and improvement at the same
time in the same area.
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4431
PROGRESSIVE CHANGE COMPARED WITH INDEPENDENT
CREATION
From the ( Origin of Species >
AUTHORS of the highest eminence seem to be fully satisfied
with the view that each species has been independently
created. To my mind it accords better with what we know
of the laws impressed on matter by the Creator, that the pro-
duction and extinction of the past and present inhabitants of the
world should have been due to secondary causes, like those
determining the birth and death of an individual. When I view
all beings not as special creations, but as the lineal descendants
of some few beings which lived long before the first bed of
the Cambrian system was deposited, they seem to me to become
ennobled. Judging from the past, we may safely infer that not
one living species will transmit its unaltered likeness to a distant
futurity. And of the species now living, very few will transmit
progeny of any kind to a far distant futurity; for the manner in
which ' all organic beings are grouped shows that the greater
number of species in each genus, and all the species in many
genera, have left no descendants, but have become utterly extinct.
We can so far take a prophetic glance into futurity as to foretell
that it will be the common and widely spread species, belonging
to the larger and dominant groups within each class, which will
ultimately prevail and procreate new and dominant species. As
all the living forms of life are the lineal descendants of those
which lived long before the Cambrian epoch, we may feel certain
that the ordinary succession by generation has never once been
broken, and that no cataclysm has desolated the whole world.
Hence we may look with some confidence to a secure future of
great length. And as Natural Selection works solely by and for
the good of each being, all corporeal and mental endowments
will tend to progress towards perfection.
It is interesting to contemplate a tangled bank, clothed with
many plants of many kinds, with birds singing on the bushes,
with various insects flitting about, and with worms crawling
through the damp earth, and to reflect that these elaborately
constructed forms, so different from each other, and dependent
upon each other in so complex a manner, have all been produced
by laws acting around us. These laws, taken in the largest
4432
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
sense, being Growth with Reproduction; Inheritance, which is
almost implied by reproduction ; Variability from the indirect and
direct action of the conditions of life, and from use and disuse:
a Ratio of Increase so high as to lead to a Struggle for Life,
and as a consequence to Natural Selection, entailing Divergence
of Character and the Extinction of less-improved forms. Thus
from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most exalted
object which we are capable of conceiving, — namely, the produc-
tion of the higher animals, — directly follows. There is grandeur
in this view of life, with its several powers, having been origi-
nally breathed by the Creator into a few forms or into one; and
that whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed
law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most
beautiful and most wonderful have been and are being evolved.
CREATIVE DESIGN
From <The Variation of Animals and Plants under Domestication >
SOME authors have declared that natural selection explains
nothing, unless the precise cause of each slight individual
difference be made clear. If it were explained to a savage
utterly ignorant of the art of building, how the edifice had been
raised stone upon stone, and why wedge-formed fragments were
used for the arches, flat stones for the roof, etc. ; and if the use
of each part and of the whole building were pointed out, it would
be unreasonable if he declared that nothing had been made clear
to him, because the precise cause of the shape of each fragment
could not be told. But this is a nearly parallel case with the
objection that selection explains nothing, because we know not
the cause of each individual difference in the structure of each
being.
The shape of the fragments of stone at the base of our
precipice may be called accidental, but this is not strictly correct;
for the shape of each depends on a long sequence of events, all
obeying natural laws: on the nature of the rock, on the lines of
deposition or cleavage, on the form of the mountain, which
depends on its upheaval and subsequent denudation, and lastly
on the storm or earthquake which throws down the fragments.
But in regard to the use to which the fragments may be put,
their shape may be strictly said to be accidental. And here we
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
4433
are led to face a great difficulty, in alluding to which I am
aware that I am traveling beyond my proper province. An
omniscient Creator must have foreseen every consequence which
results from the laws imposed by him. But can it be reasonably
maintained that the Creator intentionally ordered, if we use the
words in any ordinary sense, that certain fragments of rock
should assume certain shapes so that the builder .might erect his
edifice ? If the various laws which have determined the shape of
each fragment were not predetermined for the builder's sake, can
it be maintained with any greater probability that he specially
ordained for the sake of the breeder each of the innumerable
variations in our domestic animals and plants; — many of these
variations being of no service to man, and not beneficial, far
more often injurious, to the creatures themselves ? Did he ordain
that the crop and tail-feathers of the pigeon should vary, in
order that the fancier might make his grotesque pouter and fan-
tail breeds ? Did he cause the frame and mental qualities of the
dog to vary in order that a breed might be formed of indomi-
table ferocity, with jaws fitted to pin down the bull for man's
brutal sport? But if we give up the principle in one case, — if
we do not admit that the variations of the primeval dog were
intentionally guided in order that the greyhound, for instance,
that perfect image of symmetry and vigor, might be formed, —
no shadow of reason can be assigned for the belief that varia-
tions, alike in nature and the result of the same general laws,
which have been the groundwork through natural selection of the
formation of the most perfectly adapted animals in the world,
man included, were intentionally and specially guided. How-
ever much we may wish it, we can hardly follow Professor Asa
Gray in his belief that (< variation has been led along certain
beneficial lines, w like a stream "along definite and useful lines of
irrigation. w If we assume that each particular variation was
from the beginning of all time preordained, then that plasticity
of organization which leads to many injurious deviations of
structure, as well as the redundant power of reproduction which
inevitably leads to a struggle for existence, and as a conse-
quence, to the natural selection or survival of the fittest, — must
appear to us superfluous laws of Nature. On the other hand, an
omnipotent and omniscient Creator ordains everything and fore-
sees everything. Thus we are brought face to face with a diffi-
culty as insoluble as is that of free-will and predestination,
vni — 278
4434 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN
THE ORIGIN OF THE HUMAN SPECIES
From < The Descent of Man >
THE main conclusion arrived at in this work — namely, that
man is descended from some lowly organized form — will, I
regret to think, be highly distasteful to many persons. But
there can hardly be a doubt that we are descended from barba-
rians. The astonishment which I felt on first seeing a party of
Fuegians on a wild and broken shore will never be forgotten by
me, for the reflection at once rushed into my mind — Such were
our ancestors. These men were absolutely naked and bedaubed
with paint. . . . They possessed hardly any arts, and like wild
animals, lived on what they could catch; they had no government,
and were merciless to every one not of their own small tribe.
He who has seen a savage in his native land will not feel much
shame if forced to acknowledge that the blood of some more
humble creature flows in his veins. For my own part, I would
as soon be descended from that heroic little monkey who braved
his dreaded enemy in order to save the life of his keeper; or
from that old baboon who, descending from the mountains, car-
ried away in triumph his young comrade from a crowd of as-
tonished dogs, — as from a savage who delights to torture his
enemies, offers up bloody sacrifices, practices infanticide without
remorse, treats his wives like slaves, knows no decency, and is
haunted by the grossest superstitions.
Man may be excused for feeling some pride at having risen,
though not through his own exertions, to the very summit of the
organic scale; and the fact of his having thus risen, instead of
having been aboriginally placed there, may give him hopes for a
still higher destiny in the distant future. But we are not here
concerned with hopes or fears, only with the truth as far as our
reason allows us to discover it. I have given the evidence to the
best of my ability; and we must acknowledge, as it seems to
me, that Man with all his noble qualities, with sympathy which
feels for the most debased, with benevolence which extends not
only to other men but to the humblest living creature, with his
godlike intellect which has penetrated into the movements and
constitution of the solar system, — with all these exalted powers,
Man still bears in his bodily frame the indelible stamp of his
lowly origin.
4435
ALPHONSE DAUDET
BY AUGUSTIN FILON
)ORTY years have now elapsed since a lad of seventeen, shiv-
ering under his light summer dress in a cold misty morn-
ing, was waiting, with an empty stomach, for the opening
of a (< dairy" in the Quartier Latin. Young as he was, he looked
still younger: a pale, eager, intellectual face, with flashing eyes, del-
icately carved features, and a virgin forest of dark hair falling low
on his brow. He had been an usher for a twelvemonth at a small
college in the South of France, and he had just arrived in Paris
after a two-days' journey in a third-class railway carriage, during
which time he had tasted no food and no drink except a few drops
of brandy from the flask of some charitable sailors. And there he
was, with two francs left in his pocket, and an unlimited supply of
courage, cheerfulness, and ambition, fully determined to make the
whole world familiar with the obscure name of Alphonse Daudet.
We all know how well he has succeeded in winning for himself a
foremost place in the ranks of French contemporary literature, and
indeed of literature in general. There is no doubt that he was
admirably equipped for the great struggle on which he was about to
enter; but it may be also remarked that he had not to fight it out
alone and with his own solitary resources, but found at the very out-
set useful and strong auxiliaries. He was to have a powerful though
somewhat selfish and indolent patron in the famous Duke of Morny,
who admitted him among his secretaries before he was twenty years
old. Then he had the good fortune to attract the attention and to
take the fancy of Villemessant, the editor of the Figaro, who at first
sight gave him a place in his nursery of young talents. He had a
kind and devoted brother, who cheerfully shared with him the little
money he had to live upon, and thus saved him from the unspeak-
able miseries which would inevitably attend a literary debut at such
an early age and under such inauspicious circumstances. Later on,
he was still more fortunate in securing a loving and intelligent wife,
who was to be to him, in the words of the holy Scriptures, tt a com-
panion of his rank," a wife who was not only to become a help and
a comfort, but a literary adviser, a moral guide, and a second con-
science far more strict and exacting than his own ; a wife who taught
4436
ALPHONSE DAUDET
him how to direct and husband his precious faculties, — how to turn
them to the noblest use and highest ends.
But before that was to come, the first thing was to find a pub-
lisher; and after long looking in vain for one throughout the whole
city, he at last discovered the man he wanted, at his door, in the
close vicinity of that Hotel du Sinat, in the Rue de Tournon, where
the two brothers Daudet had taken up their abode. That publisher
was Jules Tardieu, himself an author of some merit (under the trans-
parent pseudonym of J. T. de St. Germain) : a mild, quiet humorist
of the optimistic school, a Topffer on a small scale and with reduced
proportions.
And thus it happened that a few months after the lad's arrival in
Paris an elegant booklet, with the attractive title ( Les Amoureuses *
(Women in Love) printed in red letters on its snow-white cover,
made its appearance under the galeries de rOde"on, where in the ab-
sence of political emotions, the youth of the Quartier was eagerly
looking for literary novelties, and where Daudet himself had been
wandering often, in the hope of an occasional acquaintance with the
great critics and journalists of the day who made the galeries their
favorite resort.
I have read that the book was a failure; that the young author
was unable to pay the printer, and was accordingly served with
stamped paper at the official residence of Morny, where he was then
acting as secretary; that the duke, far from showing any displeasure
at the occurrence, was delighted to find his secretary in hot water
with the bailiffs, and that he arranged the matter in the most
paternal spirit. This may be a pretty little story, but I fear it is a
<( legend. * I cannot reconcile it with the fact that four years after the
first pxiblication, the same publisher gave the public another edition
of < Les Amoureuses, * and that the young poet dedicated it to him as
a token of respect and gratitude. The truth is that Daudet's little
volume not only did not pass unnoticed, but received a good deal of
attention, chiefly from the young men. Many thought that a new
Musset was born in their midst, only a few months after the real
one had been laid down to his last sleep in the Pere Lachaise, under
the trembling shadow of his favorite willow-tree. Young Daudet al-
luded to the unfortunate poet —
<( . . . mort de degout, de tristesse, et d' absinthe ;» —
and he tried to imitate the half cynical, half nostalgic skepticism
which had made the author of ( Les Nuits ) so powerful over the
minds of the new generation and so dear to their hearts.
But it did not seem perfectly genuine. When Daudet said,
((My heart is old," no one believed it, and he did not believe it
ALPHONSE DAUDET 4437
himself, for he entitled the piece ( Fanfaronnade * ; and in fact it was
nothing more than a fanfaronnade. The book was full of the fresh-
ness, buoyancy, and frolicsome petulance of youth. Here and there
a few reminiscences might be traced to the earliest poets of the
sixteenth century, more particularly to Clement Marot. A tinge of
the expiring romanticism lingered in ( Les Amoureuses * with a
much more substantial admixture of the spirit of an age which made
pleasure-hunting its paramount occupation. The precocious child
could modulate the * Romance a Madame } as well as the page of
Beaumarchais, if not better; but he could also laugh it down in
Gavroche's sneering way; he could intersperse a song of love with
the irony of the boulevard or the more genial humor of his native
South. He was at his best in the tale of ( Les Prunes > —
« Si vous voulez savoir comment
Nous nous aimames pour des prunes* —
That exquisite little piece survived long the youthful volume of ( Les
Amoureuses.* In those days, when Coquelin's monologues and saynttes
were yet unknown, the brothers Lionnet, then in the height of their
vogue, delighted the drawing-rooms with the miniature masterpiece.
Still, those who had prophesied the advent of a new poet were
doomed to disappointment. Every one knows what Sainte-Beuve once
said about the short-lived existence, in most of us, of a poet whom
the real man is to survive. Shall we say that this was the case with
Daudet, who never, as far as the world knows, wrote verses after
twenty-five? No; the poet was not to die in him, but lived on and
lives still to this day. Only he has always written in prose.
After his successful debut, Daudet felt his way in different direc-
tions. In collaboration with M. Ernest Lepine, who has since made
a reputation under the name of Quatrelles, he had a drama, ( The
Last Idol,* performed at the Odeon theatre, — at that same Odeon
which in his first days of Paris seems to have been the centre of his
life and of his ambitions. But he more frequently appeared before
the public as a journalist and a humorist, a writer of light articles
and short stories. Nothing can give a more true, more vivacious, and
on the whole more favorable impression of the Daudet of the period
than the * Lettres de Mon Moulin * (Letters from My Windmill).
They owe their title to an old deserted windmill where Alphonse
Daudet seems to have lived some time in complete seclusion, forget-
ting, or trying to forget, the excitement of Parisian life. The
preface, most curiously disguised under the form of a mock contract
which is supposed to transfer the ownership from the old proprietor
to the poet, and professes to give the Mat de lieux or description of
the place, is an amusing parody of legal jargon. The next chapter
4438 ALPHONSE DAUDET
describes the installation of the new master in the same happy vein,
with all the odd circumstances attending it.
Throughout the rest of the volume, Daudet disappears and re-
appears, as his fancy prompts him to do. Now he lets himself be
carried back to past memories and distant places; now he gives us a
mediaeval tale or a domestic drama of to-day compressed into a few
brief pages, or a picture of rural life, or a glimpse of that literary
hell from which he had just escaped and to which he was soon to
return. He changed his tone and his subject with amazing versatil-
ity, from the bitterest satire to idyllic sweetness, or to a pleasant
kind of clever naivete which is truly his own. We see him musing
among the firs and the pine-trees of his native Provence, or riding
on the top of the diligence under the scorching sun and listening, in
a Sterne-like fashion, to the conversation which took place between
the facetious baker and the unhappy knife-grinder, or chatting
familiarly with Frederic Mistral, who takes him into the confidence
of his poetical dreams. Then, again, we see him sitting down at
the table of an Algerian sheik; or wandering on the gloomy rocks
where the Semillante was lost, and trying to revive the awful
tragedy of her last minutes; or shut up in a solitary light-house with
the keepers for weeks and weeks together, content with the society
and with the fare of those poor, rough, uncultivated men, cut off
from the whole world, alone with the stormy winds and his stormy
thoughts. Wherever his morbid restlessness takes him, whatever
part he chooses to assume, whether he wants to move us to laughter
or to tears, we can but follow him fascinated and spell-bound, and
in harmony with his moods. Daudet when he wrote those letters
was already a perfect master of all the resources of the language.
What he had seen or felt, he could make us see and feel. He could
make old words new with the freshness, ardor, and sincerity of the
personal impressions which he was pouring into them unceasingly.
The ( Letters from My Mill * had been scattered here and there
through different newspapers, and at different times. They were re-
printed in the form of a book in 1868. The year before he had given
to the public <Le Petit Chose > (A Little Chap), which is better
known, I believe, to the English-speaking races under the rather mis-
leading title of <My Brother Jack.* * Le Petit Chose* was a commer-
cial success, but it is doubtful whether it will rank as high among
Daudet's productions as the ( Lettres de Mon Moulin. * He began to
compose it in February 1866, during one of those misanthropic fits to
which he was subject at periodical intervals, and which either par-
alyzed altogether, or quickened into fever, his creative faculties. He
finished the work two years later in a very different mood, imme-
diately after his marriage. As might have been expected, the two
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4439
parts are very dissimilar, and it must be confessed greatly unequal.
( Le Petit Chose J has reminded more than one reader of ( David Cop-
perfield*; and it cannot be denied that the two works bear some
resemblance both as regards manner and matter. But though Dick-
ens was then widely read and much admired in France, plagiarism is
out of the question. If there is a little of Dickens about <Le Petit
Chose, > there is a great deal more of Daudet himself in it. Young
Eyssette, the hero of the novel, starts in life as Daudet had done
and at the same period of life, in the quality of an usher at a small
provincial college. Whether we take it as a fiction, with its innumer-
able bits of delicate humor, lovely descriptions of places and glimpses
of characters in humble life, or whether we accept it as an autobi-
ography which is likely to bring us into closer acquaintance with the
inner soul of a great man, the first part is delightful reading. But
we lose sight of him through all the adventures, at once wild and
commonplace, which are crowding in the second part, to culminate
into the most unconvincing denouement. Even when speaking of
himself, Daudet is sometimes at a disadvantage, perhaps because, as
he justly observed, <(it is too early at twenty-five to comment upon
one's own past career.8 Only the old man is able to look at his
former self through the distance of years and to see it as it stood
once, in its true light and with its real proportions.
* Tartarin of Tarascon) saw the light for the first time in 1872.
Strange to say, the readers of the Petit Moniteur, to whom it was
first offered in a serial form, did not like it. In consequence of their
marked disapproval, the publication had to be abandoned and was
then resumed through the columns of another newspaper. This time
the mistake was entirely on the side of the public. For — apart from
the fact that the immortal Tartarin was not yet Tartarin, but
answered to the much less typical name of Chapatin — the general
outlines of the character were already visible in all their distinctness
from the beginning, as all those who have read the introductory chap-
ters will readily admit. And the same lines were to be followed
with an undeviating fixity of artistic purpose and with unfailing verve
and spirit to the last. ( The Prodigious Adventures of Tartarin,'
< Tartarin on the Alps,' and < Port-Tarascon, > form a trilogy; and I
know of no other example in modern French literature of so long and
so well sustained a joke. How is it then that we never grow tired
of Tartarin? It is probably because beneath the surface of Daudet's
playful absurdity there underlies a rich substratum of good common-
sense and keen observation. Since ( Don Quixote > was written, no
caricature has ever been more human or more true than Tartarin.
Frenchmen are not, as is frequently asserted by their Anglo-Saxon
critics, totally unfit to appreciate humor, when it is mingled with the
ALPHONSE DAUDET
study of man's nature and seasoned with that high-spiced irony of
which they have been so fond at all times, from the days of Villon
to those of Rochefort. Still, Daudet would never have acquired such
a complete mastery over the general public in his own country, if
he had not been able to gratify their taste for that graphic and
faithful description of manners and characters, which in other centu-
ries put the moralists into fashion. Realism never disappears alto-
gether from French literature: it was at that moment all-powerful.
Zola was coming to the front with the first volumes of the well-
known ( Rougon-Macquart, > and Daudet in 1874 entered on the same
path, though in a different spirit, with ( Fromont Jeune et Risler
Aine.* The success was immediate and immense. The French bour-
geoisie accepted it at once as a true picture of its vices and its
virtues. The novel might, it is true, savor a little of Parisian cock-
neyism. Fastidious critics might discover in it some mixture of
weak sentimentalism, or a few traces of Dickensian affectation and
cheap tricks in story-telling. Young men of the new social school
might take exception to that old-fashioned democracy which had its
apotheosis in Risler senior. Despite all those objections, it was pro-
nounced a masterpiece of legitimate pathos and sound observation.
Even the minor characters were judged striking, and Delobelle's
name, for instance, occurs at once to our .mind whenever we try to
realize the image of the modern cabotin.
'Jack,* which came next, exceeded the usual length of French
novels. "Too much paper, my son!" old Flaubert majestically
observed with a smile when the author presented him with a copy
of his book. As for George Sand, she felt so sick at heart and so
depressed when she had finished reading 'Jack,* that she could work
no more and had to remain idle for three or four days. A painful
book, indeed, a distressing book, but how fascinating! And is not its
wonderful influence over the readers exemplified in the most striking
manner by the fact that it had the power to unnerve and to incapaci-
tate for her daily task that most valiant of all intellectual laborers,
that hardest of hard workers, George Sand ?
The lost ground, if there had been any lost at all, was soon
regained with ( Le Nabab > (The Nabob) and ( Les Rois en Exil > (Kings
in Exile). They took the reader to a higher sphere of emotion and
thought, showed us greater men fighting for greater things on a
wider theatre than the middle-class life in which Fromont and Risler
had moved. At the same time they kept the balance more evenly
than 'Jack* had done between the two elements of human drama,
good and evil, hope and despair, laughter and tears. But a higher
triumph was to be achieved with (Numa Roumestan,* which brought
Daudet's literary fame to its zenith.
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4441
had not exhausted all that the author had to say of
meridional ways and manners. The Provencal character has its
dramatic as well as its comic aspect. In (Numa Roumestan* we
have the farce and the tragedy blended together into a coherent
whole. We have a Tartarin whose power over man and woman is
not a mockery but a reality, who can win love and sympathy and
admiration, not in little Tarascon, mind you, but in Paris; who sends
joy abroad and creates torture at home; a charming companion, a
kind master, a subtle politician, a wonderful talker, but a light-
hearted and faithless husband, a genial liar, a smiling and good-
natured deceiver; the true image of the gifted adventurer who
periodically emerges from the South and goes northward finally to
conquer and govern the whole country.
As Zola has remarked, the author of ( Numa Roumestan ) poured
himself out into that book with his double nature, North and South,
the rich sensuous imagination, the indolent easy-going optimism of
his native land, and the stern moral sensitiveness which was partly
characteristic of his own mind, partly acquired by painful and pro-
tracted experience. To depict his hero he had only to consult the
most intimate records of his own lifelong struggle. For he had been
trying desperately to evince Roumestan out of his own being. He
had fought and conquered, but only partially conquered. And on this
partial failure we must congratulate him and congratulate ourselves.
He said once that <( Provencal landscape without sunshine is dull and
uninte resting. w The same may be said of his literary genius. It
wants sunshine, or else it loses half its loveliness and its irresistible
charm. ( Roumestan y is full of stinshine, and there is no other
among his books, except ( Tartarin^ where the bright and happy
light of the South plays more freely and more gracefully.
The novel is equally strong if you examine it from a different
standpoint. Nothing can be artistically better and more enchanting
than the Farandole scene, or more amusing than Roumestan's in-
trigue with the young opera singer; nothing can be more grand than
old Le Quesnoy's confession of sin and shame, or more affecting than
the closing scene where Rosalie is taught forgiveness by her dying
sister. Other parts in Daudet's work may sound hollow; (Numa
Roumestan* will stand the most critical scrutiny as a drama, as a
work of art, as a faithful representation of life. Daudet's talents were
then at their best and united in happy combination for that splendid
effort which was not to be renewed.
In ( Sapho * Daudet described the modern courtesan, in ( L'Evan-
geliste* a desperate case of religious madness. In 'L'ImmorteP he
gave vent to his feelings against the French Academy, which had re-
pulsed him once and to which he turned his back forever in disgust.
ALPHONSE DAUDET
The angry writer pursued his enemy to death. In his unforgiving
mood, he was not satisfied before he had drowned the Academy
in the muddy waters of the Seine, with its unfortunate Secretaire-
perpetuel, Astier-Rehu. The general verdict was that the vengeance
was altogether out of proportion to the offense; and that despite
all its brilliancy of wit and elaborate incisiveness of style, the satire
was really too violent and too personal to give real enjoyment to un-
biased and unprejudiced readers.
At different periods of his career Daudet had tried his hand as
a dramatist, but never succeeded in getting a firm foot on the
French stage. Play-goers still remember the signal failure of l Lise
Tavernier,* the indifferent reception of <L'Arlesienne,) or more re-
cently, of ^'Obstacle.* All his successful novels have been drama-
tized, but their popularity in that new form fell far short of the
common expectation. As an explanation of the fact various reasons
may be suggested. Daudet, I am inclined to think, is endowed with
real dramatic powers, not with scenic qualities; and from their con-
ventional point of view, old stagers will pronounce the construction
of his novels too weak for plays to be built upon them. Again, in
the play-house we miss the man who tells the story, the happy
presence — so unlike Flaubert's cheerless impassibility — the generous
anger, the hearty laugh, the delightful humor, that strange some-
thing which seems to appeal to every one of us in particular when
we read his novels. Dickens was once heard to say, on a pub-
lic occasion, that he owed his prodigious world-wide popularity to
this: that he was <(so very human. w The words will apply with
equal felicity to Daudet's success. He never troubles to conceal
from his readers that he is a man. When the critic of the future
has to assign him a place and to compare his productions with the
writings of his great contemporary and fellow-worker Emile Zola, it
will occur to him that Daudet never had the steady-going indomi-
table energy, the ox-like patience, the large and comprehensive intel-
lect which are so characteristic in the master of Medan; that he
recoiled from assuming, like the author of terminal* and Gourdes,*
a bold and definite position in the social and religious strife of our
days; that he never dreamt for a moment of taking the survey of a
whole society and covering the entire ground on which it stands with
his books.
Such a task — the critic will say — would have been uncongenial
to him. The scientist is careful to explain everything and to omit
nothing; he aims at completeness. But Daudet is an artist, not a
scientist. He is a poet in the primitive sense of the word, or, as he
styled himself in one of his books, a "trouvere.* He has creative
power, but he has at the same time his share of the minor gift of
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4443
observation. He had to write for a public of strongly realistic tend-
encies, who understood and desired nothing better than the faithful,
accurate, almost scientific description of life. Daudet could supply
the demand, but as he was not born a realist, whatever social influ-
ences he had been subjected to, he remained free from the faults
and excesses of the school. He borrowed from it all that was good
and sound; he accepted realism as a practical method, not as an
ultimate result and a consummation. Again, he was preserved from
the danger of going down too deep and too low into the unclean
mysteries of modern humanity, not so much perhaps by moral deli-
cacy as by an artistic distaste for all that js repulsive and unseemly.
For those reasons, it would not be surprising if — when Death has
made him young again — Alphonse Daudet was destined to outlive
and outshine many who have enjoyed an equal or even greater
celebrity during this century. He will command an ever increasing
circle of admirers and friends, and generations yet unborn will grow
warm in his sunshine.
THE TWO TARTARINS
From < Tartarin of Tarascon >
ANSWER me, you will say, how the mischief is it that Tartarin
of Tarascon never left Tarascon, with all this mania for
adventure, need of powerful sensations, and folly about
travel, rides, and journeys from the Pole to the Equator?
For that is a fact: up to the age of five-and-forty, the dread-
less Tarasconian had never once slept outside his own room.
He had not even taken that obligatory trip to Marseilles which
every sound Provengal makes upon coming of age. The most of
his knowledge included Beaucaire, and yet that's not far from
Tarascon, there being merely the bridge to go over. Unfortu-
nately, this rascally bridge has so often been blown away by
the gales, it is so long and frail, and the Rhone has such a
width at this spot that — well, faith! you understand! Tartarin
of Tarascon preferred terra firma.
We are afraid we must make a clean breast of it: in our hero
there were two very distinct characters. Some Father of the
4444 ALPHONSE DAUDET
Church has said: (< I feel there are two men in me.® He would
have spoken truly in saying this about Tartarin, who carried in
his frame the soul of Don Quixote, the same chivalric impulses,
heroic ideal, and crankiness for the grandiose and romantic; but,
worse is the luck! he had not the body of the celebrated
hidalgo, that thin and meagre apology for a body, on which
material life failed to take a hold; one that could get through
twenty nights without its breast-plate being unbuckled, and
forty-eight hours on a handful of rice. On the contrary, Tar-
tarin's body was a stout honest bully of a body, very fat, very
weighty, most sensual and fond of coddling, highly touchy, full of
low-class appetite and homely requirements — the short, paunchy
body on stumps of the immortal Sancho Panza.
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the one same man! you
will readily comprehend what a cat-and-dog couple they made!
what strife! what clapperclawing! Oh, the fine dialogue for
Lucian or Saint-Evremond to write, between the two Tartarins —
Quixote-Tartarin and Sancho-Tartarin ! Quixote-Tartarin firing
up on the stories of Gustave Aimard, and shouting, <( Up and at
'em ! " and Sancho-Tartarin thinking only of the rheumatics
ahead, and murmuring, <( I mean to stay at home. w
THE DUET
QUIXOTE-TARTARIN SANCHO-TARTARIN
{Highly excited} {Quite calmly}
Cover yourself with glory, Tar- Tartarin, cover yourself with flan-
tarin. nel.
\Still more excitedly} [Still more calmly}
Oh for the terrible double-bar- Oh for the thick knitted waist-
reled rifle! Oh for bowie- coats! and warm knee-caps!
knives, lassos, and mocca- Oh for the welcome padded
sins! caps with ear-flaps!
{Above all self-control} {Ringing up the maid}
A battle-axe! fetch me a battle- Now then, Jeannette, do bring
axe ! up that chocolate !
Whereupon Jeannette would appear with an unusually good
cup of chocolate, just right in warmth, sweetly smelling, and
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4445
with the play of light on watered silk upon its unctuous surface,
and with succulent grilled steak flavored with anise-seed, which
would set Sancho-Tartarin off on the broad grin, and into a
laugh that drowned the shouts of Quixote-Tartarin.
Thus it came about that Tartarin of Tarascon never had left
Tarascon.
OF « MENTAL MIRAGE,» AS DISTINGUISHED FROM LYING
From < Tartarin of Tarascon*
UNDER one conjunction of circumstances, Tartarin did how-
ever once almost start out upon a great voyage.
The three brothers Garcio-Camus, natives of Tarascon, es-
tablished in business at Shanghai, offered him the managership
of one of their branches there. This undoubtedly presented the
kind of life he hankered after. Plenty of active business, a whole
army of understrappers to order about, and connections with
Russia, Persia, Turkey in Asia — in short, to be a merchant
prince.
In Tartarin 's mouth, the title of Merchant Prince thundered
out as something stunning!
The house of Garcio-Camus had the further advantage of
sometimes being favored with a call from the Tartars. Then
the doors would be slammed shut, all the clerks flew to arms,
up ran the consular flag, and zizz! phit! bang! out of the
windows upon the Tartars.
I need not tell you with what enthusiasm Quixote-Tartarin
clutched this proposition; sad to say, Sancho-Tartarin did not
see it in the same light, and as he was the stronger party,
it never came to anything. But in the town there was much
talk about it. Would he go or would he not ? (< I'll lay he
will" — and <( I'll wager he won't ! w It was the event of the
week. In the upshot, Tartarin did not depart, but the matter
redounded to his credit none the less. Going or not going to
Shanghai was all one to Tarascon. Tartarin 's journey was so
much talked about that people got to believe he had done it
and returned, and at the club in the evening members would
actually ask for information on life at Shanghai, the manners
and customs and climate, about opium, and commerce.
4446
ALPHONSE DAUDET
Deeply read up, Tartarin would graciously furnish the par-
ticulars desired, and in the end the good fellow was not
quite sure himself about not having gone to Shanghai; so that
after relating for the hundredth time how the Tartars came
down on the trading post, it would most naturally happen him
to add: —
(< Then I made my men take up arms and hoist the consular
flag, and zizz! phit! bang! out of the windows upon the Tartars. "
On hearing this, the whole club would quiver.
<( But according to that, this Tartarin of yours is an awful
(< No, no, a thousand times over, no ! Tartarin is no liar. "
(< But the man ought to know that he has never been to
Shanghai — *
"Why, of course, he knows that; but still — "
"But still," you see — mark that! It is high time for the law
to be laid down once for all on the reputation as drawers of the
long bow which Northerners fling at Southerners. There are no
Baron Munchausens in the South of France, neither at Nimes nor
Marseilles, Toulouse nor Tarascon. The Southerner does not de-
ceive, but is self-deceived. He does not always tell the cold-
drawn truth, but he believes he does. His falsehood is not
falsehood, but a kind of mental mirage.
Yes, purely mirage! The better to follow me, you should
actually follow me into the South, and you will see I am right.
You have only to look at that Lucifer's own country, where the
sun transmogrifies everything, and magnifies it beyond life-size.
The little hills of Provence are no bigger than the Butte Mont-
martre, but they will loom up like the Rocky Mountains; the
Square House at Nimes — a mere model to put on your side-
board — will seem grander than St. Peter's. You will see — in
brief, the only exaggerator in the South is Old Sol, for he does
enlarge everything he touches. What was Sparta in its days of
splendor ? a pitiful hamlet. What was Athens ? at the most, a
second-class town; and yet in history both appear to us as enor-
mous cities. This is a sample of what the sun can do.
Are you going to be astonished, after this, that the same sun
falling upon Tarascon should have made of an ex-captain in the
Army Clothing Factory, like Bravida, the <( brave commandant " ;
of a sprout, an Indian fig-tree; and of a man who had missed
going to Shanghai one who had been there ?
ALPHONSE DAUDET 444;
THE DEATH OF THE DAUPHIN
From < Letters from My Windmill >
THE little Dauphin is ill; the little Dauphin will die. In all
the churches of the kingdom the Holy Sacrament is laid
ready day and night, and tapers are burning, for the
recovery of the royal child. The streets of the old town are sad
and silent; the bells ring no more; the carriages are driven very
slowly. The curious townspeople are gathered just outside the
palace, and are staring in through the grating of the gates at
the guards, with their golden helmets, who walk the court with
an important air. The entire castle is in a state of anxiety; the
chamberlains and major-domos go up and down the staircase,
and run through the marble halls. The galleries are filled with
pages and courtiers in silk clothing, who go from group to
group collecting later news in a low voice. On the large porches
can be seen the ladies of honor, bathed in tears, bowing their
heads and wiping their eyes with pretty embroidered handker-
chiefs. In the orangery is a numerous assembly of doctors in
long robes: one can see them through the panes gesticulating in
their long sleeves, and shaking their wigs knowingly. The little
Dauphin's tutor and squire are waiting before the door, anxious
for the decision of the faculty. Scullions pass by without salut-
ing them. The squire swears like a pagan; the tutor recites
verses from Horace. And during this time down by the stables
one can hear a long plaintive neighing. It is the Dauphin's
little sorrel pony, whom the grooms are neglecting, and who
calls sadly from his empty manger. And the King — where is his
Majesty the King ? The King has shut himself up in a room
in a remote part of the castle. Their Majesties do not like to
be seen weeping. But the Queen — that is different. Seated by
the little prince's pillow, her beautiful face bathed in tears, she
sobs bitterly before every one, just as a peasant mother would.
In his lace crib is the little Dauphin, whiter than the cushions
on which he reposes, with closed eyelids. They think he is
sleeping; but no, the little Dauphin does not sleep. He turns
toward his mother, and seeing that she weeps, he says to her,
(< Madame my Queen, why do you weep ? Do you think truly
that I am going to die ? }> The Queen wishes to reply, but sobs
prevent her speaking. (< Pray do not cry, Madame my Queen.
4448 ALPHONSE DAUDET
You forget that I am the Dauphin, and Dauphins cannot die
thus." The Queen sobs more bitterly still, and the little Dauphin
begins to be frightened. (< Hola ! w he says, <( I do not wish to
have Death come and take me; and I shall know how to prevent
his coming here. Bring forth forty lancers, our strongest, to
mount guard around our bed; a hundred cannon night and day;
torches lighted beneath our windows. And unhappy Death if he
dares to approach us then ! w The Queen gives a sign to please
the royal child. Forthwith, one can hear heavy cannon being
rolled across the courtyard; and forty soldiers, halberds in hand,
come and range themselves around the room: they are veterans,
with gray moustaches. The little Dauphin claps his hands feebly
as he sees them, and recognizing one he calls him by name,
* Lorrain ! Lorrain ! w The old soldier takes a step towards the
bed. (< I love you well, my good Lorrain. Let me see your big
sword. If Death comes to take me, we must kill him, must we
not ? w Lorrain replies, w Yes, Monseigneur, w as the big tears
run down his bronzed cheeks.
At this moment the chaplain approaches the little Dauphin,
and talks to him for some time in a low tone, showing him a
crucifix. The little Dauphin listens with an astonished air; then
suddenly interrupting, w I understand well what you say, Mon-
sieur 1'Abbe"; but after all, could not my little friend Beppo die
in my place, if we should give him a great deal of money ? w
The chaplain continues talking to him in a low voice, and
the little Dauphin looks more and more astonished. When the
chaplain has finished, the little Dauphin resumes, with a heavy
sigh, (< All that you tell me is very sad, Monsieur 1'Abbe", but
one thing consoles me: up there, in the paradise of stars, I shall
still be the Dauphin. I know that our good God is my cousin,
and would not fail to treat me according to my rank." Then he
adds, turning to his mother, <( Have my finest garments brought
— my ermine cloak and velvet slippers. I wish to array myself
for the angels, and enter paradise dressed as a Dauphin."
A third time the chaplain bends over the little prince, and
talks a long time in whispering tones. The royal child inter-
rupts him in anger, in the midst of his discourse, and cries,
<( Then it is no use to be Dauphin, — it is nothing at all ; M and
not wishing to hear more, he turns toward the wall weeping.
Translation of Mary Corey.
ALPHONSE DAUDET 4449
JACK IS INVITED TO TAKE UP A « PROFESSION »
From <Jack)
« F^vo YOU hear, Jack ? w resumed D'Argenton, with flashing eyes
[ J and outstretched arm. <( In four years you will be a
good workman; that is to say, the noblest, grandest thing
that can exist in this world of slavery and servitude. In four
years you will be that sacred, venerated thing, a good work-
man ! *
Yes, indeed he heard it! — <(a good workman. w Only he was
bewildered and was trying to understand.
The child had seen workmen in Paris. There were some
who lived in the Passage des Douze Maisons, and not far from
the Gymnase there was a factory, from which he often watched
them as they left work at about six o'clock; a crowd of dirty-
looking men with their blouses all stained with oil, and their
rough hands blackened and deformed by work.
The idea that he would have to wear a blouse struck him at
once. He remembered the tone of contempt with which his
mother would say: <( Those are workmen, men in blouses, w — the
care she took in the streets to avoid the contact of their soiled
garments. Labassindre's fine speeches on the duties and in-
fluence of the workingman in the nineteenth century attenuated
and contradicted, it is true, these vague impressions. But what
he did understand, and that most clearly and bitterly, was that
he must go away, leave the forest whose tree-tops he saw from
the window, leave the Rivalses, leave his mother, his mother
whom he had recovered at the cost of so much pain, and whom
he loved so tenderly.
What on earth was she doing at that window all this time,
seeming so indifferent to all that was going on around her?
Within the last few minutes, however, she had lost her immov-
able indifference. A convulsive shudder seemed to shake her
from head to foot, and the hand she held over her eyes closed
over them as if she were hiding tears. Was it then so sad a
sight that she beheld yonder in the country, on the far horizon
where the sun sets, and where so many dreams, so many illu-
sions, so many loves and passions sink and disappear, never to
return ?
vin — 279
4450 ALPHONSE DAUDET
(< Then I shall have to go away ? * inquired the child in a
smothered voice, and the automatic air of one who lets his
thought speak, the one thought that absorbed him.
At this artless question all the members of the tribunal
looked at each other with a smile of pity; but over there at the
window a great sob was heard.
<(We shall start in a week, my lad,* answered Labassindre
briskly. <( I have not seen my brother for a long time. I shall
avail myself of this opportunity to renew my acquaintance with
the fire of my old forge, by Jove!*
As he spoke, he turned back his sleeve, distending the mus-
cles of his brawny, hairy, tattooed arm, till they looked ready to
burst.
(< He is superb,* said Dr. Hirsch.
D'Argenton, however, who did not lose sight of the sobbing
woman standing at the window, had an absent air, and a terrible
frown gathering on his brow.
<(You can go, Jack,* he said to the child, (<and prepare to
start in a week.*
Jack went down-stairs, dazed and stupefied, repeating to him-
self, (< In a week ! in a week ! * The street door was open ; he
rushed out, bare-headed, just as he was, dashed through the
village to the house of his friends, and meeting the Doctor, who-
was just going out, informed him in a few words of what had
taken place.
Monsieur Rivals was indignant.
(< A workman ! They want to make a workman of you ? Is
that what they call looking after your prospects in life ? Wait a
moment. I am going to speak myself to monsieur your step-
father. *
The villagers who saw them pass by, the worthy Doctor
gesticulating and talking out loud, and little Jack, bare-headed
and breathless from running, said, <( There is certainly some one
very ill at Les Aulnettes. *
No one was ill, most assuredly. When the Doctor arrived
they were sitting down to table; for on account of the capricious
appetite of the master of the house, and as in all places where
ennui reigns supreme, the hours for the meals were constantly
being changed.
The faces around were cheerful; Charlotte could even be
heard humming on the stairs as she came down from her room.
ALPHONSE DAUDET
445 *
"I should like to say a word to you, M. d' Argenton, * said
old Rivals with quivering lips.
The poet twirled his moustache : —
"Well, Doctor, sit down there. They shall give you a plate
and you can say your word while you eat your breakfast.*
(< No, thank you, I am not hungry ; besides, what I have to
say to you as well as to Madame* — he bowed to Charlotte, who
had just come in — "is strictly private.*
(< I think I can guess your errand,* said D'Argenton, who did
not care for a tdte-h-titte conversation with the Doctor. " It is
about the child, is it not ? *
"You are right; it is about the child.*
<( In that case you can speak. These gentlemen know the cir-
cumstances, and my. actions are always too loyal and too dis-
interested for me to fear the light of day.*
(< But, my dear ! * Charlotte ventured to say, shocked for
many reasons at the idea of this discussion before strangers.
(<You can speak, Doctor,* said D'Argenton coldly.
Standing upright in front of the table, the Doctor began:—
"Jack has just told me that you intend to send him as an
apprentice to the iron works at Indret. Is this serious ? Come ! *
<( Quite serious, my dear Doctor. *
"Take care,* pursued M. Rivals, restraining his anger; "that
child has not been brought up for so hard a life. At a growing
age you are going to throw him out of his element into new sur-
roundings, a new atmosphere. His health, his life are involved.
He has none of the requisites needed to bear this. He is not
strong enough.*
" Oh ! allow me, my dear colleague, * put in Dr. Hirsch sol-
emnly.
M. Rivals shrugged his shoulders, and without even looking
at him, went on: —
" It is I who tell you so, Madame. *
He pointedly addressed himself to Charlotte, who was singu-
larly embarrassed by this appeal to her repressed feelings.
" Your child cannot possibly endure a life of this sort. You
surely know him, you who are his mother. You know that his
nature is a refined and delicate one, and that it will be unable
to resist fatigue. And here I only speak of the physical pain.
But do you not know what terrible sufferings a child so well
gifted, with a mind so capable and ready to receive all kinds of
ALPHONSE DAUDET
knowledge, will feel in the forced inaction, the death of intel-
lectual faculties to which you are about to condemn him ? "
<(You are mistaken, Doctor," said D'Argenton, who was get-
ting very angry. (< I know the fellow better than any one. I
have tried him. He is only fit for manual labor. His aptitudes
lie there, and there only. And it is when I furnish him with
the means of developing his aptitudes, when I put into his hands
a magnificent profession, that instead of thanking me, my fine
gentleman goes off complaining to strangers, seeking protectors
outside of his own home."
Jack was going to protest. His friend however saved him the
trouble.
<( He did not come to complain. He only informed me of
your decision, and I said to him what I now repeat to him before
you all: — (Jack, my child, dp not let them do it. Throw your-
self into the arms of your parents, of your mother who loves
you, of your mother's husband, who for her sake must love
you. Entreat them, implore them. Ask them what you have
done to deserve to be thus degraded, to be made lower than
themselves ! * "
"Doctor," exclaimed Labassindre, bringing his fist heavily
down upon the table, making it tremble and shake, (< the tool
does not degrade the man, it ennobles him. The tool is the
regenerator of mankind. Christ handled a plane when he was
ten years of age.*
"That is indeed true," said Charlotte, who at once conjured
up the vision of her little Jack dressed for the procession of the
Fete-Dieu as the child Jesus, armed with a little plane.
"Don't be taken in by such balderdash, Madame, " said the
exasperated doctor. " To make a workman of your son is to
separate him from you forever. If you were to send him to the
other end of the world, he could not be further from your mind,
from your heart; for you would have, in this case, means of
drawing together again, whereas social distances are irremediable.
You will see. The day will come when you will be ashamed of
your child, when you will find his hands rough, his language
coarse, his sentiments totally different from yours. He will stand
one day before you, before his mother, as before a stranger of
higher rank than himself, — not only humbled, but degraded."
Jack, who had hitherto not uttered a word, but had listened
attentively from a corner near the sideboard, was suddenly
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4453
alarmed at the idea of any possible disaffection springing up
between his mother and himself.
He advanced into the middle of the room, and steadying his
voice : —
(<I will not be a workman, " he said in a determined manner.
<( O Jack ! " murmured Charlotte, faltering.
This time it was D'Argenton who spoke.
(< Oh, really ! you will not be a workman ? Look at this fine
gentleman who will or who will not accept a thing that I have
decided. You will not be a workman, eh ? But you are quite
willing to be clothed, fed, and amused. Well, I solemnly declare
that I have had enough of you, you horrid little parasite; and
that if you do not choose to work, I for my part refuse to be
any longer your victim. "
He stopped abruptly, and passing from his mad rage to the
chilly manner which was habitual to him : —
(< Go up to your room," he said; <( I will consider what
remains to be done."
<(What remains to be done, my dear D'Argenton, I will soon
tell you."
But Jack did not hear the end of Monsieur Rivals's phrase,
D'Argenton with a shove having thrust him out.
The noise of the discussion reached him in his room, like the
various parts in a great orchestra. He distinguished and recog-
nized all the voices, but they melted one into the other, united
by their resonance, and made a discordant uproar through which
some bits of phrases were alone intelligible.
(< It is an infamous lie. "
<( Messieurs ! Messieurs ! "
<( Life is not a romance. M
"Sacred blouse, berth.' berth!*
At last old Rivals's voice could be heard thundering as he
crossed the threshold: —
(< May I be hanged if ever I put my foot in your house again ! "
Then the door was violently slammed, and a great silence
fell on the dining-room, broken only by the clatter of knives and
forks.
They were breakfasting.
"You wish to degrade him, to make him something lower
than yourself." The child remembered that phrase, and he felt
that this was indeed his enemy's intention.
4454
ALPHONSE DAUDET
Well, no; a thousand times no — he would not be a workman.
The door opened, and his mother came in.
She had cried a great deal, had shed real tears, tears such as
furrow the cheek. For the first time, a mother showed herself
in that pretty woman's face, an afflicted and sorrowing mother.
"Listen to me, Jack,8 she said, striving to appear severe; (< I
must speak very seriously to you. You have made me very
unhappy by putting yourself in open rebellion against your real
friends, and by refusing to accept the situation they offer you.
I am well aware that there is in the new existence — })
While she spoke, she carefully avoided meeting the child's
eyes, for they had such an expression of desperate grief and
heartfelt reproach that she would not have been able to resist
their appeal.
<( — That there is, in the new existence we have chosen for
you, an apparent inconsistency with the life you have hitherto
been leading. I confess that I was myself at first rather startled
by it, but you heard, did you not, what was said to you ? The
position of a workman is no longer what it used to be; oh no!
not at all the same thing, not at all. You must know that the
time of the working-man has now come. The middle classes
have had their day, the aristocracy likewise. Although, I must
say, the aristocracy— Moreover, is it not more natural at your
age, to allow yourself to be guided by those who love you, and
who are experienced ? w
A sob from the child interrupted her.
<( Then you too send me away ; you too send me away. w
This time the mother could no longer resist. She took him
in her arms, clasped him passionately to her heart:. —
c< I send you away ? How can you imagine such a thing ?
Is it possible? Come, be calm; don't tremble and give way like
that. You know how I love you, and how, if it only depended
on me, we would never leave each other. But we must be rea-
sonable, and think a little of the future. Alas! the future is
already dark enough for us. *
And in one of those outbursts of words that she still had
sometimes when freed from the presence of the master, she en-
deavored to explain to Jack, with all kinds of hesitations and
reticences, the irregularity of their position.
<(You see, my darling, you are still very young; there are
many things you cannot understand. Some day, when you are
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4455
older, I will reveal to you the secret of your birth; quite a
romance, my dear! Some day I will tell you the name of your
father, and the unheard-of fatality of which your mother and
yourself have been the victims. But for the present, what you
must know and thoroughly comprehend, is that nothing here
belongs to us, my poor child, and that we are absolutely depend-
ent on him. How can I therefore oppose your departure, espe-
cially when I know that he wants you to leave for your good ?
I cannot ask him for anything more. He has already done so
much for us. Besides, he is not rich, and this terrible artistic
career is so expensive! He could not undertake the expense of
your education. What will become of me between you two ?
We must come to a decision. Remember that it was a profes-
sion you were being given. Would you not be proud of being
independent, of gaining your own livelihood, of being your own
master ? w
She saw at once by the flash in the child's eye that she had
struck home; and in a low tone, in the caressing, coaxing voice
of a mother, she murmured: —
<( Do it for my sake, Jack ; will you ? Put yourself in a posi-
tion that will enable you soon to gain your livelihood. Who
knows if some day I may not be obliged myself to have recourse
to you as my only protector, my only friend ? w
Did she really think what she said ? Was it a presentiment,
one of those sudden glimpses into the future which unfold to
us our destiny and reveal the failure and disappointments of our
existence ? Or had she been merely carried away in the whirl-
wind words of her impulsive sentimentality ?
In any case she could not have found a better argument to
convince that little generous spirit. The effect was instantaneous.
The idea that his mother might want him, that he could help
her by his work, suddenly decided him.
He looked her straight in the face.
(< Swear that you will always love me, that you will never be
ashamed of me when my hands are blackened ! M
(< If I shall love you, my Jack ! w
Her only answer was to cover him with kisses, hiding her
agitation and her remorse under her passionate embraces; but
from that moment the wretched woman knew remorse, knew it
for the rest of her life; and could never think of her child
without feeling a stab in her heart.
44S6
ALPHONSE DAUDET
He however, as though he understood all the shame, un-
certainty, and terror concealed under these caresses, dashed
towards the stairs, to avoid dwelling on it.
(( Come, mamma, let us go down. I am going to tell him I
accept his offer."
Down-stairs the <( Failures w were still at table. They were all
struck by the grave and determined look on Jack's face.
(< I beg your pardon, w he said to D'Argenton. <( I did wrong
in refusing your proposal. I now accept it, and thank you."
THE CITY OF IRON AND FIRE
From < Jack >
THE singer rose and stood upright in the boat, in which he
and the child were crossing the Loire a little above Paim-
boeuf, and with a wide sweeping gesture of the arms, as if
he would have clasped the river within them, exclaimed: —
<( Look at that, old boy ; is not that grand ? w
Notwithstanding the touch of grotesqueness and commonplace
in the actor's admiration, it was well justified by the splendid
landscape unrolling before their eyes.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon. A July sun, a
sun of melting silver, spread a long luminous pathway of rays
upon the waters. In the air was a tremulous reverberation, a mist
of light, through which appeared the gleaming light of the river,
active and silent, flashing upon the sight with the rapidity of a
mirage. Dimly seen sails high in the air, which in this dazzling
hour seem pale as flax, pass in the distance as if in flight.
They were great barges coming from Noirmoutiers, laden to the
very edge with white salt sparkling all over with shining span-
gles, and worked by picturesque crews; men with the great
three-cornered hat of the Breton salt-worker, and women whose
great cushioned caps with butterfly wings were as white and
glittering as the salt. Then there were coasting vessels like
floating drays, their decks piled with sacks of flour and casks;
tugs dragging interminable lines of barges, or perhaps some
three-master of Nantes arriving from the other side of the world,
returning to the native land after two years' absence, and mov-
ing up the river with a slow, almost solemn motion, as if bear-
ing within it a silent contemplation of the old country, and the
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4457
mysterious poetry belonging to all things that come from afar.
Notwithstanding the July heat, a strong breeze blew freshly over
the lovely scene, for the wind came up from the coast with the
cheerful freshness of the open sea, and let it be guessed that a
little further away, beyond those hurrying waves already aban-
doned by the calm tranquillity of still waters, lay the deep green
of the limitless ocean, with its billows, its fogs, and its tempests.
<(And Indret? where is it?w asks Jack.
<( There, that island in front of us. M
In the silvery mist which enveloped the island, Jack saw con-
fusedly lines of great poplars and tall chimneys, whence issued a
thick filthy smoke, spreading over all, blackening even the sky
above it. At the same time he heard a clamorous and resound-
ing din, hammers falling on wrought and sheet iron, dull sounds,
ringing sounds, variously re-echoed by the sonority of the water;
and over everything a continuous and perpetual droning, as if
the island had been a great steamer, stopped, and murmuring,
moving its paddles while at anchor, and its machinery while yet
motionless.
As the boat approached the shore, slowly and yet more slowly,
— for the tide ran strongly and was hard to fight against, — the
child began to distinguish long buildings with low roofs, black-
ened walls extending on all sides with uniform dreariness; then,
on the banks of the river as far as the eye could reach, long
lines of enormous boilers painted with red lead, the startling color
giving a wildly fantastic effect. Government transports, steam
launches, ranged alongside the quay, lay waiting till these boilers
should be put on board by means of a great crane near at hand,
which viewed from a distance looked like a gigantic gibbet.
At the foot of this gallows stood a man watching the ap-
proach of the boat.
(< It is Roudic, w said the singer ; and from the deepest depths
he brought forth a formidable (< hurrah ! w which made itself
heard even in the midst of all the din of forging and hammering.
<( Is that you, young 'un ? w
(< Yes, by Jove, it is I ; are there two such notes as mine in
the whole world ? w
The boat touched the shore, and the two brothers sprang into
each other's arms with a mighty greeting.
They were alike; but Roudic was much older, and wanting in
that embonpoint so quickly acquired by singers in the exercise
of trills and sustained notes. Instead of the pointed beard of
445 8
ALPHONSE DAUDET
his brother, he was shaven, sunburnt; and his sailor's cap, a blue
wool knitted cap, shaded a true Breton face, tanned by the sea,
cut in granite, with small eyes, and a keen glance sharpened by
the minute work of a fitter and adjuster.
(< And how are all at home ? " asked Labassindre. <( Clarisse,
Zenai'de, every one ? "
"Every one is quite well, thank Heaven. Ah, ah! this is our
new apprentice. He looks like a nice little chap; only he doesn't
look over strong. "
(< Strong as a horse, my dear fellow, and warranted by the
Paris doctors. "
<( So much the better, then, for ours is a roughish trade. And
now, if you are ready, let us go and see the manager. "
They followed a long alley of fine trees that soon changed
into a street, such as is found in small towns, bordered by white
houses, clean and all alike. Here lived a certain number of the
factory workmen, the foremen, and first hands. The others were
located on the opposite bank, at Montagne or at Basse Indre.
At this hour all was silent, life and movement being concen-
trated within the iron works; and had it not been for the linen
drying at the windows, the flower-pots ranged near the panes,
the occasional cry of a child, or the rhythmical rocking of a
cradle heard through some half-opened door, the place might
have been deemed uninhabited.
(<Oh! the flag's down," said the singer, as they reached the
gate leading to the workshops. "What frights that confounded
flag has given me before now."
And he explained to his "old Jack," that five minutes after
the arrival of the workmen for the opening hour, the flag over
the gate was lowered, and thus it was announced that the doors
were closed. So much the worse for those who were late; they
were marked down as absent, and at the third offense dismissed.
While he was giving these explanations, his brother conferred
with the gate-keeper, and they were admitted within the doors
of the establishment. The din was frightful; whistlings, groan-
ings, grindings, varying but never diminishing, were re-echoed
from many vast triangular-roofed sheds, standing at intervals on
a sloping ground intersected by numerous railways.
An iron city!
Their footsteps rang upon plates of metal incrusted in the
earth. They picked their way amid heaps of bar iron, pig iron,
ingots of copper; between rows of worn-out guns brought hither
ALPHONSE DAUDET
to be melted down, rusty outside, all black within and almost
smoking still, venerable masters of fire about to perish by fire.
Roudic, as they passed along, pointed out the various quar-
ters of the establishment: "This is the setting-up room, these
the workshops of the great lathe and little lathe, the braziery,
the forges, the foundry." He had to shout, so deafening was the
noise.
Jack, half dazed, looked with surprise through the workshop
doors, nearly all open on account of the heat, at a swarming of
upraised arms, of blackened faces, of machinery in motion in a
cave-like darkness, dull and deep, lit up by brief flashes of red
light.
Out poured the hot air, with mingled odors of coal, burned
clay, molten iron and the impalpable black dust, sharp and burn-
ing, which in the sunlight had a metallic sparkle, the glitter of
coal that may become diamond.
But what gave a special character to these formidable works
was the perpetual commotion of both earth and air, a continual
trepidation, something like the striving of a huge beast impris-
oned beneath the foundry, whose groans and burning breath
burst hissing out through the yawning chimneys. Jack, fearful
of appearing too much of a novice, dared not ask what it was
made this noise, which even at a distance had so impressed
him. . . .
As they talked, they passed along the streets of the iron-
works laid with rails, crowded at this hour, the working day just
at an end, with a concourse of men of all kinds and sizes and
trades; a motley of blouses, pilot jackets, the coats of the design-
ers mixing with the uniforms of the overseers.
The gravity with which this deliverance from toil was effected
struck Jack forcibly. He compared this scene with the cries, the
jostling on the pavements which in Paris enliven the exit from
the workshops, and make it as noisy as that of a school. Here,
rule and discipline were sensibly felt, just as on board a man-of-
war.
A warm mist of steam floated over this mass of human be-
ings, a steam that the sea breeze had not yet dispersed, and
which hung like a heavy cloud in the stillness of this July even-
ing. From the now silent workshops evaporated the odors of
the forge. Steam whistled forth in the gutters, sweat stood on
all the foreheads, and the panting that had puzzled Jack a little
4460
ALPHONSE DAUDET
while ago had given place to a breath of relief from these two
thousand chests wearied with the day's labor.
As he passed through the crowd, Labassindre was soon recog-
nized.
<( Hullo ! young 'un, how are you ? w
He was surrounded, his hand eagerly shaken, and from one
to another passed the words: —
<( Here, look at Roudic's brother, the fellow who makes four
thousand pounds a year just by singing. w
Every one wished to see him, for one of the legends of the
workshops was this supposed fortune of the quondam blacksmith,
and since his departure more than one young fellow-worker had
searched to the very bottom of his larynx, to try if the famous
note, the note worth millions, were not by some happy chance to
be found there.
In the midst of this cortege of admirers, whom his theatrical
costume impressed still more, the singer walked along with his
head in the air, talking and laughing, casting "Good morning,
Father So-and-so ! Good morning, Mother What-'s-your-name ! J)
towards the little houses enlivened by women's faces looking out,
towards the public-houses and cook-shops which were frequent in
this part of Indret; where also hawkers of all kinds held sway,
exposing their merchandise in the open air: blouses, shoes, hats,
kerchiefs, all the ambulating trumpery to be found in the neigh-
borhood of camps, barracks, and factories.
As they made their way through this display of wares, Jack
imagined he saw a familiar face, a smile, parting the various
groups to reach him; but it was only a lightning flash, a mere
vision swept away at once by the ever changing tide of the mass
flowing away and dispersing through the great industrial city,
and spreading itself over to the other side of the river in long
ferry-boats, active, numerous, heavily laden, as if it were the
passage of an army.
Evening was closing in over the dispersing crowd. The sun
went down. The wind freshened, moving the poplars like palms;
and the spectacle was imposing of the toiling island in its turn
sinking to repose, restored to nature for the night. As the
smoke cleared, masses of verdure became visible between the
workshops. The river could be heard lapping the banks; and
the swallows, skimming the water with tiny twitter, fluttered
around the great boilers ranged along the quay.
ALPHONSE DAUDET 446i
THE WRATH OF A QUEEN
From < Kings in Exile >
ALL the magic beauty of that June night poured in through
the wide-open casement in the great hall. A single lighted
candelabrum scarcely disturbed the mystery of the moonlight,
which streamed in like a w milky way. w On the table, across some
dusty old papers, lay a crucifix of oxydized silver. By the side of
the crucifix was a thick broad sheet of parchment, covered with
a big and tremulous writing. It was the death-warrant of roy-
alty, wanting nothing but the signature, one stroke of the pen,
and a strong and violent effort of will to give this; and that was
the reason why this weak King hesitated, sitting motionless, his
elbows resting on the table, by the lighted candles prepared for
the royal seal.
Near him, anxious, prying, yet soft and smooth, like a night-
moth or the black bat that haunts ruins, Lebeau, the confidential
valet, watched him and silently encouraged him; for they had
arrived at the decisive moment that the gang had for months
expected, with alternate hopes and fears, with all the trepidation,
all the uncertainty attending a business dependent upon such a
puppet as this King. Notwithstanding the magnetism of this
overpowering desire, Christian, pen in hand, could not bring
himself to sign. Sunk down in his arm-chair, he gazed at the
parchment, and was lost in thought. It was not that he cared
for that crown, which he had neither wished for nor loved,
which as a child he had found too heavy, and that later in life
had bowed him down and crushed him by its terrible responsi-
bilities. He had felt no scruple in laying it aside, leaving it in
the corner of a room which he never entered, forgetting it as
much as possible when he was out; but he was scared at the
sudden determination, the irrevocable step he was about to take.
However, there was no other way of procuring money for his
new existence, no other means of meeting the hundred and
twenty thousand pounds' worth of bills he had signed, on which
payment would soon be due, and which the usurer, a certain
Pichery, picture-dealer, refused to renew. Could he allow an
execution to be put in at Saint-Mande" ? And the Queen, the
royal child ; what would become of them in that case ? If he
must have a scene — for he foresaw the terrible clamor his
4462
ALPHONSE DAUDET
cowardice must rouse — was it not better to have it now, and
brave once for all anger and recriminations? And then — all this
was not really the determining reason.
He had promised the Comtesse to sign this renunciation; and
on the faith of this promise, Se"phora had consented to let her
husband start alone for London, and had accepted the mansion
Avenue de Messine, and the title and name that published her
to the world as the king's mistress, reserving, however, anything
further till the day when Christian himself would bring her the
deed, signed by his own hand. She assigned for this conduct
the reasons of a woman in love: he might, later on, return to
Illyria, abandon her for the throne and power; she would not be
the first person whom these terrible State reasons have made
tremble and weep. D'Axel, Wattelet, all the gommeux of the
Grand Club little guessed when the king, quitting the Avenue de
Messine, rejoined them at the club with heavy fevered eyes, that
he had spent the evening on a divan, by turns repulsed or
encouraged, his feelings played upon, his nerves unstrung by the
constant resistance; rolling himself at the feet of an immovable,
determined woman, who with a supple opposition abandoned to
his impassioned embrace only the cold little Parisian hands, so
skillful in defense and evasion, while she imprinted on his lips
the scorching flame of the enrapturing words : — <( Oh ! when you
have ceased to be king, I shall be all yours — all yours ! w She
made him pass through all the dangerous phases of passion and
coldness; and often at the theatre, after an icy greeting and a
rapid smile, would slowly draw off her gloves and cast him a
tender glance; then, putting her bare hand in his, she would
seem to offer it up to his ardent kiss.
(< Then you say, Lebeau, that Pichery will not renew ? w
<(He will not, sire. If the bills are not paid, the bailiffs will
be put in."
How well he emphasized with a despairing moan the word
(< bailiff s, * so as to convey the feeling of all the sinister formali-
ties that would follow: bills protested, an execution, the royal
hearth desecrated, the family turned out of doors. Christian
saw nothing of all this. His imagination carried him far away
to the Avenue de Messine: he saw himself arriving there in
the middle of the night, eager and quivering; ascending with
stealthy and hurried step the heavily carpeted stairs, entering the
room where the night-light burned, mysteriously veiled under
ALPHONSE DAUDET 4463
lace: — "It is done — I am no longer king. You are mine, mine.*
And the loved one held out her hand.
"Come," he exclaimed, starting out of his fleeting dream.
And he signed.
The door opened and the Queen appeared. Her presence in
Christian's rooms at such an hour was so unforeseen, so unex-
pected, they had lived so long apart, that neither the King in
the act of signing his infamy, nor Lebeau, who stood watching
him, turned round at the slight noise she made. They thought
it was Boscovich coming up from the garden. Gliding lightly
like a shadow, she was already near the table, and had reached
the two accomplices, when Lebeau saw her. With her finger on
her lips she motioned him to be silent, and continued to advance,
wishing to convict the king in the very act of his treachery, and
avoid all evasion, subterfuge, or useless dissimulation; but the
valet set her order at defiance and gave the alarm, (<The Queen,
sire ! w
The Dalmatian, furious, struck straight in the face of this
malevolent caitiff with the powerful hand of a woman accustomed
to handle the reins; and drawing herself up erect, waited till the
wretch had disappeared before she addressed the king.
" What has happened, my dear Frede"rique ? and to what am I
indebted for — ? w
Standing bent over the table that he strove to hide, in a
graceful attitude that showed off his silk jacket embroidered in
pink, he smiled, and although his lips were rather pale, his voice
remained calm, his speech easy, with that polished elegance
which never left him when addressing his wife, and which placed
a barrier between them like a hard lacquer screen adorned with
flowery and intricate arabesques. With one word, one gesture,
she put aside the barrier behind which he would fain have shel-
tered himself.
"Oh! no phrases, no grimacing — if you please. I know what
you were writing there. Do not try to give me the lie.0
Then drawing nearer, overwhelming his timorous objection by
her haughty bearing: —
"Listen to me, Christian," and there was something in her
tone that gave an impression of solemnity to her words; "listen
to me: you have made me suffer cruelly since I became your
wife. I have never said anything but once — the first time, you
remember. After that, when I saw that you had ceased to love
4464
ALPHONSE DAUDET
me, I left you to yourself. Not that I was ignorant of anything
you did — not one of your infidelities, not one of your follies
remained unknown to me. For you must indeed be mad, mad
like your father, who died of exhaustion, mad with love for Lola;
mad like your grandfather John, who died in a shameful delirium,
foaming and framing kisses with the death-rattle in his throat,
and uttering words that made the Sisters of Charity grow pale.
Yes, it is the same fevered blood, the same hellish passion that
devours you. At Ragusa, on the nights of the sortie, it was at
Foedora's that they sought you. I knew it, I knew that she had
left her theatre to follow you. I never uttered a single reproach.
The honor of your name was saved. And when the King was
absent from the ramparts, I took care his place should not be
empty. But here in Paris — }>
Till now she had spoken slowly, coldly, in a tone of pity and
maternal reproof, as though inspired thereto by the downcast
eyes and pouting mouth of the King, who looked like a vicious
child receiving a scolding. But the name of Paris exasperated
her. A city without faith, a city cynical and accursed, its blood-
stained stones ever ready for sedition and barricades! What pos-
sessed these poor fallen kings, that they came to take refuge in
this Sodom! It was Paris, it was its atmosphere tainted by car-
nage and vice that completed the ruin of the historical houses;
it was this that had made Christian lose what the maddest of his
ancestors had always known how to preserve — the respect and
pride of their race. Oh ! When on the very day of their arrival,
the first night of their exile, she had seen him so excited, so gay,
while all around him were secretly weeping, Fred6rique had
guessed the humiliation and shame she would have to undergo.
Then in one breath, without pausing, with cutting words that
lashed the pallid face of the royal rake, and striped it red as
with a whip, she recalled one after the other all his follies, his
rapid descent from pleasure to vice, and vice to crime.
(<You have deceived me under my very eyes, in my own
house; adultery has sat at my table, it has brushed against my
dress. When you were tired of that dollish little face who had
not even the grace to conceal her tears, you went to the gutter,
wallowing shamelessly in the slime and mud of the streets, and
bringing back the dregs of your orgies, of your sickly remorse,
all the pollution of the mire. Remember how I saw you totter
and stammer on that morning, when for the second time you lost
ALPHONSE DAUDET 4465
your throne. What have you not done! Holy Mother of angels!
What have you not done! You have traded with the royal seal,
you have sold crosses and titles. w
And in a lower tone, as though she feared lest the stillness
and silence of the night might hear, she added: —
"You have stolen, yes, stolen! Those diamonds, those stones
torn from the crown — it was you who did it, and I allowed my
faithful Greb to be suspected and dismissed. The theft being
known, it was necessary to find a sham culprit to prevent the
real one ever being discovered. For this has been my one, my
constant preoccupation: to uphold the King, to keep him un-
touched; to accept everything for that purpose, even the shame
which in the eyes of the world will end by sullying me. I had
adopted a watchword that sustained me, and encouraged me in
my hours of trial : ( All for the crown ! * And now you want to
sell it — that crown that has cost me such anguish and such
tears; you want to barter it for gold, for the lifeless mask of that
Jewess, whom you had the indecency to bring face to face with
me to-day. w
Crushed, bending low his head, he had hitherto listened with-
out a word, but the insult directed against the woman he loved
roused him. Looking fixedly at the queen, his face bearing the
traces of her cutting words, he said politely, but very firmly: —
<(Well, no, you are mistaken. The woman you mention has
had nothing to do with the determination I have taken. What I
am doing is done for you, for me, for our common happiness.
Tell me, are you not weary of this life of privations and expe-
dients ? Do you think that I am ignorant of what is going on
here; that I do not suffer when I see you harassed by a pack
of tradespeople and duns ? The other day when that man was
shouting in the yard I was coming in and heard him. Had it
not been for Rosen I would have crushed him under the wheels
of my phaeton. And you — you were watching his departure
behind the curtains of your window. A nice position for a
Queen. We owe money to every one. There is a universal out-
cry against us. Half the servants are unpaid. The tutor even
has received nothing for the last ten months. Madame de Silvis
pays herself by majestically wearing your old dresses. And there
are days when my councilor, the keeper of the royal seals, bor-
rows from my valet the wherewithal to buy snuff. You see I
am well acquainted with the state of things. And you do not
vin — 280
4466
ALPHONSE DAUDET
know my debts yet. I am over head and ears in debt. Every-
thing is giving way around us. A pretty state of things, indeed;
you will see that diadem of yours sold one day at the corner of
a street with old knives and forks.8
Little by little, gradually carried away by his own scoffing
nature and the jesting habits of his set, he dropped the mod-
erate tone he commenced with, and in his insolent little snuffling
voice began to dwell upon the ludicrous side of the situation,
with jeers and mockery, borrowed no doubt from S6phora, who
never lost an opportunity of demolishing by her sneering obser-
vations the few remaining scruples of her lover.
"You will accuse me of making phrases, but it is you who
deafen yourself with words. What, after all, is that crown of
Illyria that you are always talking about ? It is worth nothing
except on a king's head; elsewhere it is obstruction, a useless
thing, which for flight is carried hidden away in a bonnet-box or
exposed under a glass shade like the laurels of an actor or the
blossoms of a concierge's bridal wreath. You must be convinced
of one thing, Fre'de'rique. A king is truly king only on the throne,
with power to rule; fallen, he is nothing, less than nothing,
a rag. Vainly do we cling to etiquette, to our titles, always
bringing forward our Majesty, on the panels of our carriages,
on the studs of our cuffs, hampering ourselves with an empty
ceremonial. It is all hypocrisy on our part, and mere politeness
and pity on the part of those who surround us — our friends and
our servants. Here I am King Christian II. for you, for Rosen,
for a few faithful ones. Outside I become a man like the rest,
M. Christian Two. Not even a surname, only Christian,* like an
actor of the Gae'teV*
He stopped, out of breath; he did not remember having ever
spoken so long standing. The shrill notes of the night-birds, the
prolonged trills of the nightingales, broke the silence of the night.
A big moth that had singed its wings at the lights flew about,
thumping against the walls. This fluttering distress and the
smothered sobs of the Queen were the only sounds to be heard;
she knew how to meet rage and violence, but was powerless
before this scoffing banter, so foreign to her sincere nature;
it found her unarmed, like the valiant soldier who expects
straight blows and feels only the harassing stings of insects. See-
ing her break down, Christian thought her vanquished, and to
complete his victory he put the finishing touch to the burlesque
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4467
picture he had drawn of kings in exile. <(What a pitiful figure
they cut, all these poor princes in partibus, figurants of royalty,
who drape themselves in the frippery of the principal characters,
and declaim before the empty benches without a farthing of
receipts! Would they not be wiser if they held their peace and
returned to the obscurity of common life ? For those who have
money there is some excuse. Their riches give them some right
to cling to these grandeurs. But the others, the poor cousins of
Palermo for instance, crowded together in a tiny house with their
horrid Italian cookery. It smells of onions when the door is
opened. Worthy folk certainly, but what an existence! And
those are not the worst off. The other day a Bourbon, a real
Bourbon, ran after an omnibus. ( Full, sir,* said the conductor.
But he kept on running. ( Don't I tell you it is full, my good
man ? ) He got angry; he would have wished to be called (Mon-
seigneur) — as if that should be known by the tie of his cravat!
Operetta kings, I tell you, Frederique. It is to escape from
this ridiculous position, to insure a dignified and decent exist-
ence, that I have made up my mind to sign this. J>
And he added, suddenly revealing the tortuous Slavonic nature
molded by the Jesuits : — (< Moreover, this signature is really a
mere farce. Our own property is returned to us, that is all,
and I shall not consider myself in the slightest degree bound
by this. Who knows ? — these very thousands of pounds may
help us to recover the throne. w
The Queen impetuously raised her head, looked him straight
in the eyes for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders, saying:
(< Do not make yourself out viler than you are. You know
that when once you have signed — but no. The truth is, you lack
strength and fortitude; you desert your kingly post at the most
perilous moment, when a new society, that will acknowledge
neither God nor master, pursues with its hatred the representa-
tives of Divine right, makes the heavens tremble over their heads
and the earth under their steps. The assassin's knife, bombs,
bullets, all serve their purpose. Treachery and murder are on
every side. In the midst of our pageantry or our festivities, the
best of us as well as the worst, not one of us does not start if
only a man steps forward out of the crowd. Hardly a petition
that does not conceal a dagger. On leaving his palace what king
is certain of returning alive ? And this is the hour you choose
to leave the field ! w
4468
ALPHONSE DAUDET
<(Ah! if fighting could do it!" eagerly said Christian II. <( But
to struggle as we do against ridicule, against poverty, against all
the petty meannesses of life, and feel that we only sink deeper
every day — "
A ray of hope lit up her eyes : — w Is it true ? would you fight ?
Then listen."
Breathlessly she related, in a few rapid words, the expedition
she and Elyse*e had been preparing for the last three months by
letters, proclamations, and dispatches, which Father Alphe"e, ever
on the move, carried from one mountain village to the other.
This time it was not to the nobility they appealed, but to the
people; the muleteers, the porters of Ragusa, the market-gardeners
of Breno, of La Brazza, the islanders who go to market in their
feluccas, the nation which had remained faithful to the mon-
archical tradition, which was ready to rise and die for its king,
on condition that he should lead them. Companies were form-
ing, the watchword was already circulating, only the signal now
remained to be given.
The Queen, hurling her words at Christian to rout his weak-
ness by a vigorous charge, had a cruel pang when she saw
him shake his head, showing an indifference which was even
greater than his discouragement. Perhaps at the bottom of his
heart he was annoyed that the expedition should have been so
far organized without his knowledge. But he did not believe in
the feasibility of the plan. It would not be possible to advance
into the country; they would be compelled to hold the islands,
and devastate a beautiful country with very little chance of suc-
cess: a second edition of the Due de Palma's adventure, a useless
effusion of blood.
w No, really, my dear Fre'de'rique, you are led away by the
fanaticism of your chaplain and the wild enthusiasm of that hot-
headed Gascon. I also have my sources of information, far more
reliable than yours. The truth is, that in Dalmatia, as in many
other countries, monarchy has had its day. They are tired of it,
they will have no more of it."
"Oh! I know the coward who will have no more of it," said
the Queen. And she went out hurriedly, leaving Christian much
surprised that the scene should have ended so abruptly. He
hastily thrust the deed into his pocket, and prepared to go out
in his turn, when Fre'de'rique reappeared, accompanied this time
by the little prince.
ALPHONSE DAUDET
4469
Roused out of his sleep and hurriedly dressed, Zara, who had
passed from the hands of his nurse to those of the Queen with-
out a word having been uttered, opened wide his bewildered
eyes under his auburn curls, but asked no questions; he remem-
bered confusedly in his poor little dizzy head similar awakenings
for hasty flights, in the midst of pallid faces and breathless
exclamations. It was thus that he had acquired the habit of
passive obedience; that he allowed himself to be led anywhere,
provided the Queen called him in her grave and resolute voice,
and held ready for his childish weakness the shelter of her ten-
der arms and the support of her strong shoulder. She had said:
(< Come ! }> and he had come with confidence, surprised only at the
surrounding silence, so different from those other stormy nights,
with their visions of blood and flames, roar of cannon, and rattle
of musketry.
He saw the King standing, no longer the careless good-
natured father who at times surprised him in his bed or crossed
the schoolroom with an encouraging smile, but a stern father,
whose expression of annoyance became more accentuated as he
saw them enter. Frederique, without uttering one word, led the
child to the feet of Christian II. and abruptly kneeling, placed
him before her, crossing his little fingers in her joined hands : —
<( The king will not listen to me, perhaps he will listen to
you, Zara. Come, say with me, ( Father. y w The timid voice re-
peated, « Father.8
<( ( My father ! my king ! I implore ! do not despoil your child.
Do not deprive him of the crown he is to wear one day.
Remember that it is not yours alone; it comes from afar, from
God himself, who gave it six hundred years ago to the house of
Illyria. God has chosen me to be a king, father. It is my
inheritance, my treasure ; you have no right to take it from me. > w
The little prince accompanied his fervent murmur with the
imploring looks of a supplicant; but Christian turned away his
head, shrugged his shoulders, and furious though still polite, he
muttered a few words between his teeth : (< Exaggeration ! most
improper; turn the child's head." Then he tried to withdraw
and gain the door. With one bound the Queen was on her feet,
caught sight of the table from which the parchment had disap-
peared, and comprehending at once that the infamous deed was
signed, that the king had it in his possession, gave a despairing
shriek : —
4470
ALPHONSE DAUDET
« Christian ! »
He continued to advance towards the door.
She made a step forward, picking up her dress as if to pur-
sue him; then suddenly said: —
«Well, be it so.»
He stopped short and turned round. She was standing before
the open window, her foot upon the narrow stone balcony, with
one arm clasping her son ready to bear him into death, the other
extended menacingly towards the cowardly deserter. The moon
lit up from without this dramatic group.
(< To an operetta King, a Queen of tragedy, w she said, stern
and terrible. <( If you do not burn this instant what you have
just signed, and swear on the cross that it will never be re-
peated, your race is ended, crushed, wife and child, there on the
stones. B
Such earnestness seemed to inspire her vibrating tone, her
splendid figure bent towards the emptiness of space as though to
spring, that the King, terrified, dashed forward to stop her.
« Fre"de"rique ! »
At the cry of his father, at the quiver of the arm that held
him, the child — who was entirely out of the window — thought
that all was finished, that they were about to die. He never
uttered a word nor a moan ; was he not going with his mother ?
Only, his tiny hands clutched the queen's neck convulsively, and
throwing back his head with his fair hair hanging down, the
little victim closed his eyes before the appalling horror of the
fall.
Christian could no longer resist. The resignation, the cour-
age of this child, who of his future kingly duties already knew
the first — to die well — overcame him. His heart was bursting.
He threw upon the table the crumpled parchment which for a
moment he had been nervously holding in his hand, and fell sob-
bing in an arm-chair. Fre"derique, still suspicious, read the deed
through from the first line to the very signature, then going up
to a candle, she burned it till the flame scorched her fingers,
shaking the ashes upon the table; she then left the room, carry-
ing off her son, who was already falling asleep in her arms in
his heroically tragic attitude.
Translation of Laura Ensor and E. Bartow.
447^
MADAME DU DEFFAND
(MARIE DE VICHY-CHAMROND)
(1697-1780)
[ADAME DU DEFFAND is interesting as a personality, a type,
and an influence. Living through nearly the whole of the
eighteenth century, she assimilated its wealth of new ideas,
and was herself a product of the thought-revolution already kindling
the spirit of 1789.
She very early showed her mental independence by puzzling
questions upon religion. The eloquent Massillon attempted to win
her to orthodoxy. But he soon gave up the task, told the Sisters to
buy her a catechism, and went off declar-
ing her charming. The inefficacy of the
catechism was proved later, when the
precocious girl developed into the grace-
ful, unscrupulous society woman. She was
always fascinating to the brightest men
and women of her own and other lands.
But the early years of social triumph, when
she still had the beautiful eyes admired
by Voltaire, are less significant than the
nearly thirty years of blindness in the con-
vent of St. Joseph, which after her afflic-
tion she made her home. Here she held
her famous receptions for the literary and
social celebrities of Paris. Here Mademoiselle Lespinasse endured a
miserable ten years as her companion, then rebelled against her
exactions, and left to establish a rival salon of her own, aided by
her devoted D'Alembert. His preference Madame du Deffand never
forgave. Henceforth she opposed philosophy, and demanded from
her devotees only stimulus and amusement. It was here that Hor-
ace Walpole found the <( blind old woman w in her tub-like chair, and
began the friendship and intellectual flirtation of fifteen years. It
proved a great interest in her life, notwithstanding Walpole's dread
of ridicule at a suggestion of romance between his middle-aged self
and this woman twenty years older.
She was a power in the lives of many famous people, intimate
with Madame de Stael, Voltaire, Montesquieu, Madame de Choiseul,
the Duchess of Luxembourg, Madame Necker, Hume, Madame de
MADAME DU DEFFAND
4472 MADAME DU DEFFAND
Genlis. In her salon old creeds were argued down, new ideas dis-
seminated, and bans mots and witty gossip circulated. She has re-
counted what went on, and explained the reign of clever women in
her century. Ignoring her blindness, she lived her life as gayly as
she could in visiting, feasting, opera-going, and letter-writing. But
even her social supremacy and brilliant correspondence with Voltaire,
Walpole, and others, did not satisfy her. She wished to appeal to
the heart, and she appealed only to the head. Of all ills she most
dreaded ennui, and the very dread of it made her unhappy. She
became more and more insufficient to herself, until at eighty-three
she died with clear-sighted indifference.
<(She was perhaps the wittiest woman who ever lived,* says
Saintsbury. Hers was an inextinguishable wit, always alert, epi-
grammatic, enriching the language with proverbial phrases.
During her life Voltaire's science of unbelief and Rousseau's
appeal to nature and sentiment were stimulating Europe. For Rous-
seau, Madame du Deffand had no respect; but Voltaire's philosophy
appealed to her egotism. It bade a human being investigate his own
puzzles, and seek solution in himself. Madame du Deffand agreed,
but failed to find satisfaction in her anxious analysis; she envied
believers in God, and longed for illusions, yet allowed herself none.
Jealous, exacting, critical, with all the arrogance of the old aris-
tocracy, she was as merciless to herself as to others. (<A11 my
judgments have been false and daring and too hasty. ... I have
never known any one perfectly. . . . To whom then can I have
recourse ? M she cries despairingly.
Sainte-Beuve emphasizes her noblest quality: with all her faults
she was true. She lived out her life frankly, boldly, without self-
deception or imposition. So in the entertaining volumes of her let-
ters and pen-portraits of acquaintances, she has left a valuable record.
She takes us back a century, and shows not only how people looked
and what they did, but how they thought and felt.
TO THE DUCHESSE DE CHOISEUL
PARIS, Sunday, December 28th, 1766.
Do YOU know, dear Grandmama [a pet name], that you are the
greatest philosopher that ever lived ? Your predecessors
spoke equally well, perhaps, but they were less consistent
in their conduct. All your reasonings start from the same senti-
ment, and that makes the perfect accord one always feels be-
tween what you say and what you do. I know very well why,
MADAME DU DEFFAND
4473
loving you madly, I am ill at ease with you. It is because I
know that you must pity everybody who is unlike yourself. My
desire to please you, the brief time that I am permitted with
you, and my eagerness to profit by it, all trouble, embarrass,
intimidate me and discompose me.
I exaggerate, I utter platitudes; and end by being disgusted
with myself, and eager to rectify the impression I may have
made upon you.
You wish me to write to M. de Choiseul, and to make my
letter pretty and bright. Ah, indeed! I'm the ruler of my own
imagination, am I ! I depend upon chance. A purpose to do or
to say such or such a thing takes away the possibility. I am not
in the least like you. I do not hold in my hands the springs of
my spirit. However, I will write to M. de Choiseul. I will
seize a propitious moment. The surest means of making it come
is to feel hurried.
I am sending you an extract from an impertinent little pam-
phlet entitled ( Letter to the Author of the Justification of Jean
Jacques. y You will see how it treats our friend. I am not sure
that it should be allowed; whether M. de Choiseul should not
talk to M. de Sartines about it. It is for you to decide, dear
Grandmama, if it is suitable, and if M. de Choiseul ought to
permit licenses so impertinent.
I am dying to see you. In spite of my fear, in spite of my
dreads, I am convinced that you love me because I love you.
TO MR. CRAWFORD
SUNDAY, March gth, 1766.
I READ your letter to Madame de Forcalquier, or rather I gave
it to her to read. I thought from her tone that she liked it,
but she will not commit herself. She is more than incom-
prehensible. The Trinity is not more mysterious. She is com-
posed of systems, which she does not understand herself; great
words, great principles, great strains of music, of which nothing
remains. However, I am of your opinion, that she is worth
mo^ than all my other acquaintances. She agrees that it would
be delightful to have you live in this country; but if she were
only to see you en passant, it hardly matters whether you came
or not; that she has not forgotten you, but that she will forget
MADAME DU DEFFAND
you. Eh ! Why shouldn't she forget you ? She does not know
you. ... A hundred speeches of the sort which vex me.
They say of people who have too much vivacity that they
were put in too hot an oven. They might say of her, on the
contrary, that she is underdone. She is the sketch of a beauti-
ful work, but it is not finished. What is certain is, that her
sentiments, if she has sentiments, are sincere, and that she does
not bore you. I showed her your letter because I thought that
would give you pleasure; but be sure that no one in the world,
not even she, shall see what you write me in future except
Niart [her secretary], who as you know is a well.
I have just made you a fine promise that I will not show
your letters; perhaps I shall never be able to show them.
Truly, truly, I am like Madame de Forcalquier, and do not know
you!
I spent three hours with Mr. Walpole yesterday, but only half
an hour alone with him. Lord George and his wife returned his
short call, but your Dr. James stayed there all the time. He is
a very gloomy, uninteresting man.
Have you seen Jean Jacques? Is he still in London? Have
you seen your father ? Imagine yourself t$te-h.-t£te with me in
the corner of the fireplace, and answer all my questions, but
especially those which concern your health. Have you seen the
doctors ? Have they ordered you the waters ? And tell me too,
honestly, if I shall ever see you again. Reflect that you are
only twenty-five years old, that I am a hundred, and that it only
requires a brief kindness to put pleasure in my life. No, I will
not assume the pathetic. Do just what pleases you.
TO HORACE WALPOLE
TUESDAY, August 5th, 1766.
I HAVE received your letter of July 3ist — no number, sheets of
different sizes. All these observations mean nothing, unless
it is that a person without anything to do or to think occupies
herself with puerile things. Indeed, I should do very wrong not
to profit by all your lessons, and to persist in the error of believ-
ing in friendship, and regarding it as a good; no, no; I renounce
my errors, and am absolutely persuaded that of all illusions that
is the most dangerous.
MADAME DU DEFFAND 4475
You who are the apostle of this wise doctrine, receive my
confession and my vows never to love, never to seek to be loved
by any one; but tell me if it is permitted to 'desire the return of
agreeable persons; if one may long for news of them, and if to
be interested in them and to let them know it is to lack virtue,
good sense, and proper behavior. I am awaiting enlightenment.
I cannot doubt your sincerity; you have given me too many
proofs of it; explain yourself without reserve.
WEDNESDAY, 6th.
Of all the things in your letter, what struck me the most yes-
terday were your moralizings on friendship, which forced me to
reply at once. I was interrupted by Monsieur and Madame de
Beau van, who came to take me to supper with them in the
country at the good Duchess of Saint-Pierre's. I returned early.
I did not close my eyes during the night. I woke up Niart [her
secretary] earlier than usual to go on with my letter, and to
re-read me yours. I am better pleased with it this morning than
I was yesterday. The matter of friendship shocked me less. I
find that the conclusion is — let us be friends without friendship.
Ah well, so be it; I consent. Perhaps it is agreeable; let us
learn by experience, and for that — see each other the oftener! In
truth, you have only a comic actress, a deaf woman, and some
chickens to leave, as you have only a blind woman and many
goslings to find; but I promise you that the blind woman will
have much to ask and much to tell.
I do not know what to say to you about your ministry. You
have entertained me so little with politics, that if others had not
informed me, all that goes on with you would be less intelligible
to me than the affairs of China. They have told me something
of the character of the count; and as for this certain good com-
rade [Con way], I think I know him perfectly. I am pleased that
he has remained, but not that he does not oppose your philos-
ophy. All your opinions are beautiful and praiseworthy; but if
I were in his place I should certainly hinder you from making
use of them, and not regulate my conduct by your moderation
and disinterestedness. Oh! as for my lord, you cannot keep
him, — that's the public cry. It seems to me that the brother and
sister-in-law are not pleased. Do you not detest the people ?
From the agrarian law to your monument, your lamps, and your
MADAME DU DEFFAND
black standard, its joy, its sadness, its applause, its complaints,
are all odious to me. But I am going back to speak to you about
yourself. You say that your fortune, instead of augmenting, will
suffer diminution. I am much afraid of that. No liberty with-
out a competency. Remember that. If your economy falls upon
your trips to France I shall be miserable. But listen to this with-
out getting vexed.
I possess, as you know, a small lodging-room belonging to
me, little worthy of the son of Robert Walpole, but which may
satisfy the philosopher Horace. If he found it convenient, he
could occupy it without incurring the slightest ridicule. He can
consult sensible people, and while waiting, be persuaded that it
is not my personal interest which induces me to offer it to him.
Honestly, my mentor, you could not do better than take it.
You would be near me or a hundred leagues from me if you
liked it better. It would not engage you to any attention nor
any assiduity; we would renew our vows against friendship. It
would even be necessary to render more observance to the Idol
[Comtesse de Boufflers] ; for who could be shocked, if not she ?
Pont-de-Veyle, who approves and advises this arrangement, claims
that even the Idol would find nothing to oppose. Think of that.
Grandmama returned yesterday morning. My favor with her
is better established. She will take supper with me Friday; and
as the supper was arranged without foreseeing that she would
be there, she will find a company which will not exactly suit
her, — among others the Idol, and the Archbishop of Toulouse.
I shall have many things to tell you when I see you. It may
be that they will hardly interest you, but it will be the world of
my Strawberry Hill.
You agree with me about the letters, which pleases me. I be-
lieve myself a genius when I find myself in agreement with you.
This Prince Geoffrin is excellent. Surely heaven is witness that I
do not love you, but I am forced to find you very agreeable.
Are you waiting until your arrival here to give a jug to the
Marechale de Luxembourg? I see no necessity of making a
present to the Idol; incense, incense, that is all it wants!
I have a great desire that you should read a Memoir of La
Chalottais ; it is very rare, very much (< prohibited, B but I am
intriguing to get it.
MADAME DU DEFFAND
4477
M. de Beau van begs you to send me a febrifuge for him. It
is from Dr. James, I think. There are two kinds; one is mild
and the other violent. He requires a louis's worth of each.
You are mightily deceiving yourself if you think Voltaire
author of the analysis of the romance of ( Heloise. > The author
is a man from Bordeaux, a friend of M. de Secondat. Apropos
of Voltaire, he has had the King of Prussia sounded to know if
he would consent to give him asylum at Wesel in case he were
obliged to leave his abode. This his Majesty has very willingly
granted.
Good-by. I am counting upon being able in future to give
you news of your court and your ministry. I have made a new
acquaintance, who is a favorite of Lord Bute and the most inti-
mate friend of Lord Holderness. I do not doubt that this lord
is aiming at my Lord Rochefort's place, who they say scarcely
troubles himself about the embassy.
Write me, I beg you, at least once a week.
Tell me if M. Crawford is in Scotland.
It is thought that the first news from Rome will inform us of
the death of Chevalier Macdonald.
PORTRAIT OF HORACE WALPOLE
NOVEMBER, 1765.
No, NO! I do not want to draw your likeness; nobody knows
you less than I. Sometimes you seem to me what I wish
you were, sometimes what I fear you may be, and per-
haps never what you really are. I know very well that you
have a great deal of wit of all kinds and all styles, and you
must know it better than any one.
But your character should be painted, and of that I am not a
good judge. It would require indifference, or impartiality at
least. However, I can tell you that you are a very sincere man,
that you have principles, that you are brave, that you pride
yourself upon your firmness; that when you have come to a
decision, good or bad, nothing induces you to change it, so that
your firmness sometimes resembles obstinacy. Your heart is
good and your friendship strong, but neither tender nor facile.
Your fear of being weak makes you hard. You are on your guard
against all sensibility. You cannot refuse to render valuable
4478 MADAME DU DEFFAND
services to your friends; you sacrifice your own interest to them,
but you refuse them the slightest of favors. Kind and humane
to all about you, you do not give yourself the slightest trouble
to please your friends in little ways.
Your disposition is very agreeable although not very even.
All your ways are noble, easy, and natural. Your desire to
please does not lead you into affectation. Your knowledge of the
world and your experience have given you a great contempt for
men, and taught you how to live with them. You know that all
their assurances go for nothing. In exchange you give them
politeness and consideration, and all those who do not care about
being loved are content with you.
I do not know whether you have much feeling. If you have,
you fight it as a weakness. You permit yourself only that which
seems virtuous. You are a philosopher; you have no vanity,
although you have a great deal of self-love. But your self-love
does not blind you; it rather makes you exaggerate your faults
than conceal them. You never extol yourself except when you
are forced to do so by comparing yourself with other men. You
possess discernment, very delicate tact, very correct taste; your
tone is excellent.
You would have been the best possible companion in past
centuries; you are in this, and you would be in those to come.
Englishman as you are, your manners belong to all countries.
You have an unpardonable weakness to which you sacrifice
your feelings and submit your conduct — the fear of ridicule. It
makes you dependent upon the opinion of fools; and your friends
are not safe from the impressions against them which fools
choose to give you.
Your judgment is easily confused. You are aware of this
weakness, which you control by the firmness with which you pur-
sue your resolutions. Your opposition to any deviation is some-
times pushed too far, and exercised in matters not worth the
trouble.
Your instincts are noble and generous. You do good for the
pleasure of doing it, without ostentation, without claiming grati-
tude; in short, your spirit is beautiful and high.
4479
DANIEL DEFOE
BY CHARLES FREDERICK JOHNSON
DANIEL DEFOE, one of the most vigorous and voluminous writ-
ers of the last decade of the seventeenth and the first
quarter of the eighteenth centuries, was born in St. Giles
parish, Cripplegate, in 1660 or 1661, and died near London in 1731.
His father was a butcher named Foe, and the evolution of the son's
name through the various forms of D. Foe, De Foe, Defoe, to
Daniel Defoe, the present accepted form, did not begin much before
he reached the age of forty. He was educated at the (< dissenting
school * of a Mr. Martin in Newington Green, and was intended for
the Presbyterian ministry. Although the training at this school was
not inferior to that to be obtained at the universities, — and indeed
superior in one respect, since all the exercises were in English, — the
fact that he had never been (<in residence* set Defoe a little apart
from the literary society of the day. Swift, Pope, Addison, Arbuth-
not, and the rest, considered him untrained and uncultured, and
habitually spoke of him with the contempt which the regular feels
for the volunteer. Swift referred to him as (<an illiterate fellow
whose name I forget, * and Pope actually inserted his name in the
< Dunciad > : —
(< Earless on high stood unabashed De Foe.*
This line is false in two ways, for Defoe's ears were not clipped,
though he was condemned to stand in the pillory; and there can
hardly be a greater incongruity conceived than there is between our
idea of a dunce and the energetic, shifty, wide-awake Defoe, — though
for that matter a scholar like Bentley and a wit like Colley Gibber
are as much out of place in the poet's ill-natured catalogue. Defoe
angrily resented the taunts of the university men and their profes-
sional assumption of superiority, and answered Swift that <(he had
been in his time master of five languages and had not lost them
yet,* and challenged John Tutchin to (< translate with him any Latin,
French, or Italian author, and then retranslate them crosswise, for
twenty pounds each book.*
Notwithstanding the great activity of Defoe's pen (over two hun-
dred pamphlets and books, most of them of considerable length, are
4480
DANIEL DEFOE
known to be his; and it is more than probable that much of his
work was anonymous and has perished, or could be only partly dis-
interred by laborious conjecture) he found time to engage twice in
business, once as a factor in hosiery and once as a maker of tiles.
In each venture he seems to have been unfortunate, and his business
experience is alluded to here only because his practical knowledge
of mercantile matters is evident in all his work. Even his pirates
like Captain Bob Singleton, and adventurers like Colonel Jack, have
a decided commercial flavor. They keep a weather eye on the profit-
and-loss account, and retire like thrifty traders on a well-earned
competency. It is worth mentioning, however, to Defoe's credit,
that in one or two instances at least he paid his debts in full, after
compromising with his creditors.
Defoe's writings, though all marked by his strong but limited per-
sonality, fall naturally into three classes: —
First, his political writings, in which may be included his wretched
attempts at political satire, and most of his journalistic work. This
is included in numberless pamphlets, broad-sheets, newspapers, and
the like, and is admirable expository matter on the public questions
of the day. Second, his fiction, ( Robinson Crusoe, * ( Captain Sin-
gleton,* ( Colonel Jack,* (Roxana,* and ( Moll Flanders.* Third, his
miscellaneous work; innumerable biographies and papers like the
* History of the Plague,* the ( Account of the Great Storm,* ( The
True Relation of the Apparition of One Mrs. Veal,* etc. Between the
last two classes there is a close connection, since both were written
for the market; and his fictions proper are cast in the autobiographi-
cal form and are founded on incidents in the lives of real persons,
and his biographies contain a large proportion of fiction.
Some knowledge of Defoe's political work is necessary to a com-
prehension of the early eighteenth century. During his life the
power of the people and of the House of Commons was slowly ex-
tended, and the foundations of the modern English Constitution were
laid. The trading and manufacturing classes, especially in the city
of London, increased in wealth and political consequence. The read-
ing public on which a popular writer could rely, widened. With these
changes — partly as cause and purely as consequence — came the
establishment of (<News Journals ** and <( Reviews. ** Besides Addison's
Spectator for the more cultured classes, multitudes of periodicals
were founded which aimed to reach a more general public. The
old method of a broad-sheet or the pamphlet, hawked in the streets
or exposed for sale and cried at the book-stalls, was still in use, but
the regular issue of a news-letter was taking its place. Defoe attacked
the public in both ways with unwearied assiduity. His poem ( The
True-Born Englishman * was sold in the streets to the astonishing
DANIEL DEFOE
4481
number of eighty thousand. In 1704 he established the Review, a
bi-weekly. It ran to 1713, and Defoe wrote nearly all of each num-
ber. Afterwards he was for eight years main contributor and sub-
stantially manager of Mist's Journal, a Tory organ; and one of the
most serious and well-founded charges against this first great jour-
nalist is, that he was deficient in journalistic honor, and remained in
the pay of the Whig Ministry while attached to the Opposition organ.
During this period he founded and conducted several other journals.
Defoe possessed in a large measure the journalistic sense. No one
ever had a finer instinct in the subtle arts of (< working the public })
and of advertising. When the notorious Jack Sheppard was con-
demned, he visited him at Newgate, wrote his life, and had the high-
wayman, standing under the gallows, send for a copy and deliver
it as his Mast speech and dying confession.* There is a certain
breadth and originality in this stroke, hardly to be paralleled in
modern journalism. Defoe had the knack of singling out from the
mass of passing events whatever would be likely to interest the pub-
lic. He brought out an account in some newspaper, and if successful,
made the occurrence the subject of a longer article in pamphlet or
book form. He was always on the lookout for matter, which he
utilized with a pen of marvelous rapidity. The gazette or embryonic
newspaper was at first confined to a rehearsal of news. Defoe
invented the leading article or (< news-letter w of weekly comment,
and the society column of Mercure Scandaleuse.
The list of Defoe's political pamphlets is a large one, but they are
of more interest to the historian than to the general reader. While
they are far inferior in construction and victorious good sense to
Sydney Smith's magazine articles on kindred topics, and to Swift's
'Drapier's Letters * in subtle appeals to the prejudices of the igno-
rant, they show a remarkable command over the method of reaching
the plain people, — to use President Lincoln's phrase, and taking it
to mean that great body of quiet persons who desire on the whole
to be fair in their judgments, but who must have their duty made
quite evident before they see it. Defoe is never vituperative — that
is, vituperative for a time when Pope and Swift and Dennis made
their personal invective so much higher flavored than modern taste
endures. He seems to have been tolerant by nature; and although
this proceeds in his case from the fact that his moral enthusiasm
was never very warm, and not from any innate refinement of nature,
he is entitled to the credit of moderation in the use of abusive lan-
guage. He is tolerant, too, of those who differ from him in pol-
itics and religion; and though it is absurd to suppose, as some of
his biographers have done, that he was so far in advance of his
century as to have advocated the political soundness of free trade, he
vni — 281
4482
DANIEL DEFOE
shows in his treatment of commercial questions the marks of a broad
and comprehensive mind. He speaks of foreigners in a cosmopolitan
spirit, with the exception of the Portuguese, for whom he seems to
feel a lively dislike, founded possibly on some of his early business
experiences. The reader will remember the dignified and courteous
demeanor of the Spaniards in ( Robinson Crusoe J; and although the
violent antipathy of the previous generation to Spanish Romanists
had abated, Defoe's freedom from insular prejudice is noteworthy,
the more so that a (< discreet and sober bearing, w such as he gives his
Spaniards, seems to have been his ideal of conduct. Defoe is a great
journalist, and although he is a typical hack, writing timely articles
for pay, he has a touch of genius. He was always successful in
gaining the ear of his public; and in the one instance where he hit
upon a subject of universal interest, the life of the solitary castaway
thrown absolutely on his own resources, he wrote a book, without
any effort or departure from his usual style, which has been as pop-
ular with succeeding generations as it was with his own. It is a
mistake to call ( Robinson Crusoe* a <( great boy's book,w — unless we
regard the boy nature as persistent in all men, and perhaps it is in
all healthy men, — for it treats the unaided conflict with nature and
circumstance, which is the essence of adult life, with unequaled
simplicity and force. Crusoe is not merely an adventurer; he is the
human will, courage, resolution, stripped of all the adventitious
support of society. He has the elements of universal humanity,
though in detail he is as distinctly English as Odysseus is Greek.
The characters of Defoe's other novels — Colonel Jack, Captain
Singleton, Moll Flanders, and Roxana — are so repulsive, and so en-
tirely unaware of their repulsiveness, that we can take little interest
in them. Possibly an exception might be made in favor of Colonel
Jack, who evinces at times an amusing humor. All are criminals, and
the conflict of the criminal with the forces of society may be the sub-
ject of the most powerful fiction. But these books are inartistic in sev-
eral regards. No criminals, even allowing them to be hypocrites, ever
disclose themselves in the open-hearted manner of these autobiogra-
phers. Vice always pays to virtue the homage of a certain reticence
in details. Despite all his Newgate experiences and his acquaintance
with noted felons, Defoe never understood either the weakness or
the strength of the criminal type. So all his harlots and thieves
and outcasts are decidedly amateurish. A serious transgression of
the moral law is to them a very slight matter, to be soon forgotten
after a temporary fit of repentance, and a long course of evil living
in no wise interferes with a comfortable and respectable old age.
His pirates have none of the desperation and brutal heroism of sin.
Stevenson's John Silver or Israel Hands is worth a schooner-load of
DANIEL DEFOE
4483
them. Neither they nor their author seem to value virtue very
highly, though they are acutely sensitive to the discomfort of an
evil reputation. Possibly such people may be true to a certain type
of humanity, but they are exceedingly uninteresting. A writer who
takes so narrow a view cannot produce a great book, even though
his lack of moral scope and insight is partly compensated by a vivid
presentation of life on the low plane from which he views it.
( Moll Flanders y and ( Roxana > are very coarse books, but it can
hardly be said that they are harmful or corrupting.. They are simply
vulgar. Vice has preserved all its evil by preserving all its gross-
ness. Passion is reduced to mere animalism, and is depicted with
the brutal directness of Hogarth. This may be good morals, but it is
unpleasant art. It is true that Defoe's test of a writer was that he
should w please and serve his public, w and in providing amusement he
was not more refined nor more coarse than those whom he addressed;
but a writer should look a little deeper and aim a little higher than
the average morality of his day. Otherwise he may please but will
not serve his generation, in any true sense of literary service.
Defoe is sometimes spoken of as the first great realist. In a lim-
ited sense this may be true. No doubt he presents the surface of
a limited area of the eighteenth-century world with fidelity. With
the final establishment of Protestantism, the increase of trade, and
the building of physical science on the broad foundations laid down
by Newton, England had become more mundane than at any other
period. The intense faith and the imaginative quality of the sev-
enteenth century were deadened. The eighteenth century kept its
eyes on the earth, and though it found a great many interesting and
wonderful things there, and though it laid the foundations of Eng-
land's industrial greatness, it was neither a spiritual nor an artistic
age. The novel was in its infancy; and as if a "true story* was
more worthy of respect than an invention, it received from Defoe an
air of verisimilitude and is usually based on some real events. He is
careful to embellish his fictions with little bits of realism. Thus, Moll
Flanders gives an inventory of the goods she took to America, and
in the ( History of the Plague ) Defoe adds a note to his description
of a burial-ground : — (< N. B. The author of this Journal lies buried
in that very ground, being at his own desire, his sister having been
buried there a few weeks before. M This enumeration of particulars
certainly gives an air of reality, but it is a trick easily caught, and
it is only now and then that he hits — as in the above instance — on
the characteristic circumstance which gives life and reality to the
narrative. Except in ( Robinson Crusoe,* much of his detail is irrele-
vant and tiresome. But all the events on the lonely island are
admirably harmonized and have a cumulative effect. The second
4484
DANIEL DEFOE
part, — after the rescue, — written to take advantage of the popularity
of the first, is vastly inferior. The artistic selective power is not
exercised. This same concrete imagination which sees minute details
is also evident in his contemporary Swift, but with him it works at
the bidding of a far more fervid and emotional spirit.
Defoe is a pioneer in novel-writing and in journalism, and in both
he shows wonderful readiness in appreciating what the public would
like and energy in supplying them with it. To the inventor or dis-
coverer of a new form we cannot deny great credit. Most writers
imitate, but it cannot be said that Defoe founded himself on any
predecessor, while his successors are numbered by hundreds. A cer-
tain relationship could be traced between his work, and the picaresque
tales of France and Spain on the one hand and the contemporary
journals of actual adventure on the other; but not one close enough
to detract from his claim to original power.
Some of Defoe's political work, like (The True-Born Englishman,*
* The Shortest Way with Dissenters, > ( Reasons against the Succession
of the House of Hanover,* are written in the ironical tone. Mr.
Saintsbury seems to think that Defoe's method is not truly ironical,
because it differs from Swift's; but if we remember that one writer
differeth from another in irony, there is no reason to deny Defoe's
mastery of this penetrating weapon, especially when we find that he
imposed on both parties. The judges told him that (< irony of that
sort would bring him to the gallows, M but the eighteenth-century
law of libel was more rigid in its constructions than the canons of
literary art.
Defoe made several attempts at poetical satire, which are sufficient
to show that he lacked either the talent or the patience to write
political verse. Compared with Dryden's or Pope's, his work is mere
doggerel, enlivened by occasional vigorous couplets like —
(< Wherever God erects a house of prayer,
The devil always builds a chapel there:
And 'twill be found upon examination
The latter has the largest congregation. »
Or
(<No panegyric needs their praise record —
An Englishman ne'er wants his own good word.M
But an examination will confirm the impression that Defoe was not a
poet, as surely as the re-reading of ( Robinson Crusoe > will strengthen
our hereditary belief that he was a great writer of prose.
DANIEL DEFOE 4485
FROM < ROBINSON CRUSOE >
CRUSOE'S SHIPWRECK
NOTHING can describe the confusion of thought which I felt
when I sunk into the water; for though I swam very
well, yet I could not deliver myself from the waves so as
to draw my breath; till that wave having driven me or rather
carried me a vast way on towards the shore, and having spent
itself, went back, and left me upon the land almost dry, but
half dead with the water I took in. I had so much presence of
mind as well as breath left, that seeing myself nearer the main-
land than I expected, I got upon my feet, and endeavored to
make on towards the land as fast as I could, before another
wave should return and take me up again; but I soon found it
was impossible to avoid it; for I saw the sea coming after me as
high as a great hill, and as furious as an enemy which I had no
means or strength to contend with: my business was to hold my
breath, and raise myself upon the water, if I could; and so by
swimming to preserve my breathing, and pilot myself towards
the shore if possible; my greatest concern now being that the
wave, as it would carry me a great way towards the shore when
it came on, might not carry me back again with it when it gave
back towards the sea.
The wave that came upon me again, buried me at once
twenty or thirty feet deep in its own body; and I could feel
myself carried with a mighty force and swiftness towards the
shore, a very great way; but I held my breath, and assisted
myself to swim still forward with all my might. I was ready to
burst with holding my breath, when, as I felt myself rising up,
so to my immediate relief I found my head and hands shoot
out above the surface of the water; and though it was not two
seconds of time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved me
greatly, gave me breath and new courage. I was covered again
with water a good while, but not so long but I held it out; and
finding the water had spent itself, and began to return, I struck
forward against the return of the waves, and felt ground again
with my feet. I stood still a few moments to recover breath,
and till the water went from me, and then took to my heels
and ran with what strength I had farther towards the shore.
4486
DANIEL DEFOE
But neither would this deliver me from the fury of the sea,
which came pouring in after me again; and twice more I was
lifted up by the waves and carried forward as before, the shore
being very flat.
The last time of these two had well-nigh been fatal to me;
for the sea having hurried me along as before, landed me, or
rather dashed me, against a piece of rock, and that with such
force that it left me senseless, and indeed helpless as to my
own deliverance; for the blow taking my side and breast, beat
the breath as it were quite out of my body, and had it returned
again immediately I must have been strangled in the water; but
I recovered a little before the return of the waves, and seeing
I should again be covered with the water, I resolved to hold fast
by a piece of the rock, and so to hold my breath if possible till
the wave went back. Now, as the waves were not so high as
the first, being nearer land, I held my hold till the wave abated,
and then fetched another run, which brought me so near the
shore, that the next wave, though it went over me, yet did not
so swallow me up as to carry me away; and the next run I took,
I got to the mainland, where to my great comfort I clambered
up the cliffs of the shore, and sat me down upon the grass, free
from danger and quite out of the reach of the water.
I was now landed, and safe on shore; and began to look up
and thank God that my life was saved, in a case wherein there
were, some minutes before, scarce any room to hope. I believe
it is impossible to express, to the life, what the ecstasies and
transports of the soul are when it is so saved, as I may say, out
of the grave: and I did not wonder now at the custom, viz.,
that when a malefactor who has the halter about his neck is
tied up, and just going to be turned off, and has a reprieve
brought to him, — I say I do not wonder that they bring a sur-
geon with it, to let him blood that very moment they tell him
of it; that the surprise may not drive the animal spirits from the
heart and overwhelm him.
<( For sudden joys, like griefs, confound at first. w
I walked about the shore, lifting up my hands, and my whole
being, as I may say, wrapped up in the contemplation of my
deliverance; making a thousand gestures and motions which I
cannot describe; reflecting upon my comrades that were drowned,
and that there should not be one soul saved but myself; for as
DANIEL DEFOE
4487
for them, I never saw them afterwards, or any sign of them,
except three of the hats, one cap, and two shoes that were, not
fellows.
I cast my eyes to the stranded vessel — when the breach and
froth of the sea being so big I could hardly see it, it lay so far
off — and considered, Lord! how was it possible I could get on
shore ?
CRUSOE MAKES A NEW HOME
I soon found the place I was in was not for my settlement,
particularly because it was upon a low moorish ground, near the
sea, and I believed it would not be wholesome; and more particu-
larly because there was no fresh water near it; so I resolved
to find a more healthy and more convenient spot of ground.
I consulted several things in my situation which I found
would be proper for me: first, air and fresh water, I just now
mentioned; secondly, shelter from the heat of the sun; thirdly,
security from ravenous creatures, whether men or beasts;
fourthly, a view to the sea, that if God sent any ship in sight, I
might not lose any advantage for my deliverance, of which I
was not willing to banish all my expectation yet.
I searched for a place proper for this. I found a little plain
on the side of a rising hill, whose front towards this little plain
was steep as a house-side, so that nothing could come down upon
me from the top. On the side of this rock there was a hollow
place, worn a little way in, like the entrance or door of a cave;
but there was not really any cave, or way into the rock at all.
On the flat of the green, just before this hollow place, I
resolved to pitch my tent. This plain was not above a hundred
yards broad, and about twice as long, and lay like a green before
my door; and at the end of it descended irregularly every way
down into the low ground by the seaside. It was on the N. N. W.
side of the hill, so that it was sheltered from the heat every day,
till it came to a W. and by S. sun, or thereabouts, which in
those countries is near the setting.
Before I set up my tent I drew a half-circle before the hollow
place, which took in about ten yards in its semi-diameter from
the rock, and twenty yards in its diameter from its beginning
and ending.
In this half-circle I pitched two rows of long stakes, driving
them into the ground till they stood very firm like piles, the
4488
DANIEL DEFOE
biggest end being out of the ground about five feet and a half,
and sharpened on the top. The two rows did not stand above
six inches from one another.
Then I took the pieces of cable which I cut in the ship, and
laid them in rows, one upon another, within the circle between
these two rows of stakes, up to the top, placing other stakes in
the inside, leaning against them, about two feet and a half high,
like a spur to a post: and this fence was so strong that neither
man nor beast could get into it or over it. This cost me a
great deal of time and labor, especially to cut the piles in the
woods, bring them to the place, and drive them into the earth.
The entrance into this place I made to be not by a door, but
by a short ladder to go over the top; which ladder, when I was
in, I lifted over after me; and so I was completely fenced in
and fortified, as I thought, from all the world, and consequently
slept secure in the night, which otherwise I could not have
done; though as it appeared afterwards, there was no need of
all this caution against the enemies that I apprehended danger
from.
A FOOTPRINT
It happened one day about noon, going toward my boat, I
was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot
on the shore, which was very plain to be seen on the sand. I
stood like one thunderstruck, or as if I had seen an apparition.
I listened, I looked about me, but I could hear nothing or see
anything; I went up to a rising ground to look farther; I went
up the shore and down the shore, but it was all one: I could
see no other impression but that one. I went to it again to see
if there were any more, and to observe if it might not be my
fancy; but there was no room for that, for there was exactly
the print of a foot — toes, heel, and every part of a foot. How
it came hither I knew not, nor could I in the least imagine; but
after innumerable fluttering thoughts, like a man perfectly con-
fused and out of myself, I came home to my fortification, not
feeling, as we say, the ground I went on, but terrified to the last
degree, looking behind me at every two or three steps, mistak-
ing every bush and tree, and fancying every stump at a distance
to be a man. Nor is it possible to describe how many various
shapes my affrighted imagination represented things to me in,
how many wild ideas were found every moment in my fancy, and
DANIEL DEFOE 4489
what strange unaccountable whimseys came into my thoughts
by the way. When I came to my castle (for so I think I called
it ever after this) I fled into it. like one pursued. Whether I
went over by the ladder, as first contrived, or went in at the
hole in the rock, which I had called a door, I cannot remember;
no, nor could I remember the next morning, for never frightened
hare fled to cover or fox to earth with more terror of mind than
I to this retreat.
FROM < HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE IN LONDON >
SUPERSTITIOUS FEARS OF THE PEOPLE
BUT I must go back again to the beginning of this surprising
time; while the fears of the people were young, they were
increased strangely by several odd incidents, which put
altogether, it was really a wonder the whole body of the people
did not rise as one man and abandon their dwellings, leaving the
place as a space of ground designed by heaven for an Akeldama-
doomed to be destroyed from the face of the earth, and that all
that would be found in it would perish with it. I shall name
but a few of these things; but sure they were so many, and so
many wizards and cunning people propagating them, that I have
often wondered there was any (women especially) left behind.
In the first place, a blazing star or comet appeared for sev-
eral months before the plague, as there did the year after,
another, a little before the fire; the old women, and the phleg-
matic hypochondriac part of the other sex, whom I could almost
call the old women too, remarked, especially afterward, though
not till both those judgments were over, that those two comets
passed directly over the city, and that so very near the houses
that it was plain they imported something peculiar to the city
alone. That the comet before the pestilence was of a faint, dull,
languid color, and its motion very heavy, solemn, and slow; but
that the comet before the fire was bright and sparkling, or as
others said, flaming, and its motion swift and furious; and that
accordingly one foretold a heavy judgment, slow but severe,
terrible, and frightful, as was the plague. But the other foretold
a stroke, sudden, swift, and fiery, as was the conflagration; nay,
so particular some people were, that as they looked upon that
comet preceding the fire they fancied that they not only saw it
44go DANIEL DEFOE
pass swiftly and fiercely, and could perceive the motion with
their eye, but they even heard it, — that it made a rushing mighty
noise, fierce and terrible, though at a distance and but just per-
ceivable.
I saw both these stars, and I must confess, had had so
much of the common notion of such things in my head that I
was apt to look upon them as the forerunners and warnings of
God's judgments; and especially when the plague had followed
the first, I saw yet another of the like kind, I could not but
say, God had not yet sufficiently scourged the city.
The apprehensions of the people were likewise strangely in-
creased by the error of the times, in which I think the people,
from what principle I cannot imagine, were more addicted to
prophecies and astrological conjurations, dreams, and old wives'
tales, than ever they were before or since: whether this unhappy
temper was originally raised by the follies of some people who
got money by it, — that is to say, by printing predictions and prog-
nostications,— I know not; but certain it is, books frighted them
terribly ; such as ( Lily's Almanack, * ( Gadbury's Astrological Pre-
dictions,} 'Poor Robin's Almanack,* and the like; also several
pretended religious books, one entitled, (Come out of Her, my
People, lest Ye be Partakers of her Plagues * ; another called
( Fair Warning y ; another, ( Britain's Remembrancer * ; and many
such, all or most part of which foretold, directly or covertly, the
ruin of the city; nay, some were so enthusiastically bold as to
run about the streets with their oral predictions, pretending they
were sent to preach to the city; and one in particular, who like
Jonah to Nineveh, cried in the streets, <( Yet forty days, and
London shall be destroyed. w I will not be positive whether he
said forty days or yet a few days. Another ran about naked,
except a pair of drawers about his waist, crying day and night,
like a man that Josephus mentions, who cried, (<Woe to Jerusa-
lem ! " a little before the destruction of that city ; so this poor
naked creature cried, (< Oh ! the great and the dreadful God ! w and
said no more, but repeated those words continually, with a voice
and countenance full of horror, a swift pace; and nobody could
ever find him to stop, or rest, or take any sustenance, at least
that ever I could hear of. I met this poor creature several
times in the streets, and would have spoken to him, but he would
not enter into speech with me or any one else, but kept on his
dismal cries continually.
DANIEL DEFOE
449 I
These things terrified the people to the last degree; and
especially when two or three times, as I have mentioned already,
they found one or two in the hills, dead of the plague at St.
Giles's.
Next to these public things were the dreams of old women;
or I should say, the interpretation of old women upon other
people's dreams; and these put abundance of people even out of
their wits. Some heard voices warning them to be gone, for
that there would be such a plague in London, so that the living
would not be able to bury the dead; others saw apparitions in
the air; and I must be allowed to say of both, I hope without
breach of charity, that they heard voices that never spake, and
saw sights that never appeared; but the imagination of the peo-
ple was really turned wayward and possessed; and no wonder if
they who were poring continually at the clouds saw shapes and
figures, representations and appearances, which had nothing in
them but air and vapor. Here they told us they saw a flaming
sword held in a hand, coming out of a cloud, with a point
hanging directly over the city. There they saw hearses and
coffins in the air carrying to be buried. And there again, heaps
of dead bodies lying unburied and the like; just as the imagina-
tion of the poor terrified people furnished them with matter to
work upon.
(< So hypochondriac fancies represent
Ships, armies, battles in the firmament;
Till steady eyes the exhalations solve,
And all to its first matter, cloud, resolve. w
I could fill this account with the strange relations such people
give every day of what they have seen; and every one was so
positive of their having seen what they pretended to see, that
there was no contradicting them without breach of friendship, or
being accounted rude and unmannerly on the one hand and pro-
fane and impenetrable on the other. One time before the plague
was begun, otherwise than as I have said in St. Giles's, — I think
it was in March, — seeing a crowd of people in the street I joined
with them to satisfy my curiosity, and found them all staring up
into the air to see what a woman told them appeared plain to
her, which was an angel clothed in white, with a fiery sword in
his hand, waving it or brandishing it over his head. She
described every part of the figure to the life, showed them the
DANIEL DEFOE
motion and the form, and the poor people came into it so
eagerly and with so much readiness: <(Yes! I see it all plainly,"
says one, "there's the sword as plain as can be;w another saw
the angel; one saw his very face, and cried out what a glorious
creature he was! One saw one thing, and one another. I looked
as earnestly as the rest, but perhaps not with so much willing-
ness to be imposed upon; and I said indeed that I could see
nothing but a white cloud, bright on one side by the shining of
the sun upon the other part. The woman endeavored to show
it me, but could not make me confess that I saw it, which
indeed if I had, I must have lied; but the woman turning to me
looked me in the face and fancied I laiighed, in which her imagi-
nation deceived her too, for I really did not laugh, but was
seriously reflecting how the poor people were terrified by the
force of their own imagination. However, she turned to me,
called me a profane fellow and a scoffer, told me that it was a
time of God's anger, and dreadful judgments were approaching,
and that despisers such as I should wander and perish.
The people about her seemed disgusted as well as she, and I
found there was no persuading them that I did not laugh at
them, and that I should be rather mobbed by them than be able
to undeceive them. So I left them, and this appearance passed
for as real as the blazing star itself.
Another encounter I had in the open day also; and this was
in going through a narrow passage from Petty France into
Bishopsgate Churchyard, by a row of almshouses. There are two
churchyards to Bishopsgate Church or parish; one we go over to
pass from the place called Petty France into Bishopsgate Street,
coming out just by the church door; the other is on the side of
the narrow passage where the almshouses are on the left, and a
dwarf wall with a palisade on it on the right hand, and the city
wall on the other side more to the right.
In this narrow passage stands a man looking through the
palisades into the burying-place, and as many people as the nar-
rowness of the place would admit to stop without hindering the
passage of others; and he was talking mighty eagerly to them,
and pointing now to one place, then to another, and affirming
that he saw a ghost walking upon such a gravestone there: he
described the shape, the posture, and the movement of it so
exactly, that it was the greatest amazement to him in the world
that everybody did not see it as well as he. On a sudden he
DANIEL DEFOE
4493
would cry, (< There it is ! Now it comes this way ! n then, w Tis
turned back ! * till at length he persuaded the people into so firm
a belief of it, that one fancied he saw it; and thus he came
every day making a strange hubbub, considering it was so nar-
row a passage, till Bishopsgate clock struck eleven, and then the
ghost would seem to start, and as if he were called away, dis-
appear on a sudden.
I looked earnestly every way and at the very moment that
this man directed, but could not see the least appearance of
anything; but so positive was this poor man that he gave them
vapors in abundance, and sent them away trembling and fright-
ened, till at length few people that knew of it cared to go
through that passage, and hardly anybody by night on any ac-
count whatever.
This ghost, as the poor man affirmed, made signs to the
houses, and to the ground, and to the people, plainly intimating,
or else they so understanding it, that abundance of people should
come to be buried in that churchyard, as indeed happened; but
that he saw such aspects, I must acknowledge I never believed,
nor could I see anything of it myself, though I looked most
earnestly to see it if possible.
How QUACKS AND IMPOSITORS PREYED ON THE FEARS OF THE PEOPLE
I cannot omit a subtlety of one of those quack operators, with
which he gulled the poor people to crowd about him, but did
nothing for them without money. He had, it seems, added to
his bills which he gave out in the streets, this advertisement in
capital letters ; viz. , (< He gives advice to the poor for nothing. w
Abundance of people came to him accordingly, to whom he
made a great many fine speeches, examined them of the state of
their health and of the constitution of their bodies, and told
them many good things to do which were of no great moment;
but the issue and conclusion of all was, that he had a prepara-
tion which, if they took such a quantity of every morning, he
would pawn his life that they should never have the plague,—
no, though they lived in the house with people that were infected.
This made the people all resolve to have it; but then the price
of that was so much, — I think it was half a crown. <( But, sir,w
says one poor woman, <( I am a poor almswoman, and am kept by
the parish, and your bills say you give the poor your help for
4494
DANIEL DEFOE
nothing." <(Ay, good woman," says the doctor, (<so I do, as I
published there ; I give my advice, but not my physic ! w (< Alas,
sir," says she, (<that is a snare laid for the poor then, for you
give them your advice for nothing: that is to say, you advise
them gratis, to buy your physic for their money; so does every
shopkeeper with his wares. w Here the woman began to give him
ill words, and stood at his door all that day, telling her tale to
all the people that came, till the doctor, finding she turned away
his customers, was obliged to call her up-stairs again and give
her his box of physic for nothing, which perhaps too was good
for nothing when she had it.
THE PEOPLE ARE QUARANTINED IN THEIR HOUSES
This shutting up of houses was at first counted a very cruel
and unchristian method, and the poor people so confined made
bitter lamentations; complaints of the severity of it were also
daily brought to my lord mayor, of houses causelessly and some
maliciously shut up; I cannot say, but upon inquiry, many that
complained so loudly were found in a condition to be continued;
and others again, inspection being made upon the sick person
and the sickness not appearing infectious, or if uncertain, yet
on his being content to be carried to the pest-house, was released.
As I went along Houndsditch one morning about eight o'clock
there was a great noise; it is true indeed that there was not
much crowd, because the people were not very free to gather
together, or to stay together when they were there, nor did I
stay long there; but the outcry was loud enough to prompt my
curiosity, and I called to one who looked out of a window, and
asked what was the matter.
A watchman, it seems, had been employed to keep his post
at the door of a house which was infected, or said to be infected,
and was shut up; he had been there all night for two nights
together, as he told his story, and the day watchman had been
there one day, and was now come to relieve him; all this while
no noise had been heard in the house, no light had been seen,
they called for nothing, sent him on no errands, which used to be
the chief business of the watchman, neither had they given him
any disturbance, as he said, from Monday afternoon, when he
heard a great crying and screaming in the house, which as he
supposed was occasioned by some of the family dying just at
DANIEL DEFOE
4495
that time. It seems the night before, the dead-cart, as it was
called, had been stopt there, and a servant-maid had been brought
down to the door dead, and the buriers or bearers, as they were
called, put her into the cart, wrapped only in a green rug, and
carried her away.
The watchman had knocked at the door, it seems, when he
heard that noise and crying as above, and nobody answered a
great while; but at last one looked out and said with an angry
quick tone, and yet a kind of crying voice, or a voice of one
that was crying, <(What d'ye want, that you make such a knock-
ing ? " He answered, <( I am the watchman ; how do you do ?
What is the matter ? M The person answered, w What is that to
you? Stop the dead-cart. w This, it seems, was about one o'clock;
soon after, as the fellow said, he stopped the dead-cart, and then
knocked again, but nobody answered; he continued knocking, and
the bellman called out several times, <( Bring out your dead ; w but
nobody answered, till the man that drove the cart, being called
to other houses, would stay no longer, and drove away.
The watchman knew not what to make of all this, so he let
them alone till the morning man, or day watchman, as they
called him, came to relieve him. Giving him an account of the
particulars, they knocked at the door a great while, but nobody
answered, and they observed that the window or casement at
which the person looked out who had answered before, continued
open, being up two pair of stairs.
Upon this the two men, to satisfy their curiosity, got a long
ladder, and one of them went up to the window and looked into
the room, where he saw a woman lying dead upon the floor in
a dismal manner, having no clothes on her but her shift; but
though he called aloud, and putting in his long staff, knocked
hard on the floor, yet nobody stirred or answered; neither could
he hear any noise in the house.
He came down upon this, and acquainted his fellow, who
went up also, and finding it just so, they resolved to acquaint
either the lord mayor or some other magistrate of it, but did
not offer to go in at the window. The magistrate, it seems,
upon the information of the two men ordered the house to be
broken open, a constable and other persons being appointed to
be present, that nothing might be plundered; and accordingly it
was so done, when nobody was found in the house but that
young woman, who having been infected and past recovery, the
4496
DANIEL DEFOE
rest had left her to die by herself, and every one gone, having
found some way to delude the watchman and to get open the
door, or get out at some back door, or over the tops of the
houses, so that he knew nothing of it; and as to those cries and
shrieks which he heard, it was supposed they were the passionate
cries of the family at this bitter parting, which to be sure it was
to them all, this being the sister to the mistress of the family.
The man of the house, his wife, several children and servants,
being all gone and fled; whether sick or sound, that I could
never learn, nor indeed did I make much inquiry after it.
MORAL EFFECTS OF THE PLAGUE
Here we may observe, and I hope it will not be amiss to
take notice of it, that a near view of death would soon reconcile
men of good principles one to another, and that it is chiefly
owing to our easy situation in life, and our putting these things
far from us, that our breaches are fomented, ill blood continued,
prejudices, breach of charity and of Christian union so much
kept and so far carried on among us as it is: another plague
year would reconcile all these differences; a close conversing with
death or with diseases that threaten death would scum off the
gall from our tempers, remove the animosities among us, and
bring us to see with differing eyes than those which we looked
on things before; as the people who had been used to join with
the church were reconciled at this time with the admitting
the Dissenters, who with an uncommon prejudice had broken off
from the communion of the Church of England, were now con-
tent to come to their parish churches, and to conform to the
worship which they did not approve of before; but as the terror
of the infection abated, those things all returned again to their
less desirable channel, and to the course they were in before.
I mention this but historically. I have no mind to enter into
arguments to move either or both sides to a more charitable com-
pliance one with another; I do not see that it is probable such a
discourse would be either suitable or successful; the breaches
seem rather to widen, and tend to a widening farther than to
closing; and who am I that I should think myself able to influ-
ence either one side or the other ? But this I may repeat again,
that it is evident death will reconcile us all — on the other side
the grave we shall be all brethren again; in heaven, whither
DANIEL DEFOE 4497
I hope we may come from all parties and persuasions, we shall
find neither prejudice nor scruple; there we shall be of one prin-
ciple and of one opinion. Why we cannot be content to go hand
in hand to the place where we shall join heart and hand, with-
out the least hesitation and with the most complete harmony
and affection; I say, why we cannot do so here, I can say noth-
ing- to, neither shall I say anything more of it but that it remains
to be lamented.
TERRIBLE SCENES IN THE STREETS
This [38,195 deaths in about a month] was a prodigious num-
ber of itself; but if I should add the reasons which I have to
believe that this account was deficient, and how deficient it was,
you would with me make no scruple to believe that there died
above 10,000 a week for all those weeks, and a proportion for
several weeks both before and after. The confusion among the
people, especially within the city, at that time was inexpressible;
the terror was so great at last that the courage of the people
appointed to carry away the dead began to fail them ; nay, several
of them died, although they had the distemper before, and were
recovered; and some of them dropped down when they had been
carrying the bodies even at the pitside, and just ready to throw
them in; and this confusion was greater in the city, because they
had flattered themselves with hopes of escaping, and thought the
bitterness of death was past. One cart, they told us, going up
to Shoreditch, was forsaken by the drivers, or being left to one
man to drive, he died in the street; and the horses, going on,
overthrew the cart and left the bodies, some thrown here, some
there, in a dismal manner. Another cart was, it seems, found in
the great pit in Finsbury Fields, the driver being dead, or having
been gone and abandoned it ; and the horses running too near it,
the cart fell in and drew the horses in also. It was suggested
that the driver was thrown in with it and that the cart fell upon
him, by reason his whip was seen to be in the pit among the
bodies; but that, I suppose, could not be certain.
In our parish of Aldgate the dead-carts were several times,
as I have heard, found" standing at the churchyard gate, full of
dead bodies; but neither bellman, nor driver, nor any one else
with it. Neither in these nor in many other cases did they know
what bodies they had in their cart, for sometimes they were let
down with ropes out of balconies and out of windows; and some-
vni — 282
4498
DANIEL DEFOE
times the bearers brought them to the cart, sometimes other
people; nor, as the men themselves said, did they trouble them-
selves to keep any account of the numbers.
THE PLAGUE DUE TO NATURAL CAUSES
I would be far from lessening the awe of the judgments of
God, and the reverence to his Providence, which ought always
to be on our minds on such occasions as these; doubtless the
visitation itself is a stroke from heaven upon a city, or country,
or nation where it falls, a messenger of his vengeance, and a
loud call to that nation, or country, or city, to humiliation and
repentance, according to that of the prophet Jeremiah, xviii.
7, 8: (<At what instant I shall speak concerning a nation, and
concerning a kingdom to pluck up, and pull down, and destroy
it; if that nation against whom I have pronounced turn from
their evil, I will repent of the evil that I thought to do unto
them." Now to prompt due impressions of the awe of God on
the minds of men on such occasions, and not to lessen them,
it is that I have left those minutes upon record.
I say, therefore, I reflect upon no man for putting the reason
of those things upon the immediate hand of God, and the
appointment and direction of his Providence; nay, on the con-
trary there were many wonderful deliverances of persons when
infected, which intimate singular and remarkable Providence in
the particular instances to which they refer; and I esteem my
own deliverance to be one next to miraculous, and do record it
with thankfulness.
But when I am speaking of the plague as a distemper arising
from natural causes, we must consider it as it was really propa-
gated by natural means; nor is it at all the less a judgment for
its being under the conduct of human causes and effects: for as
the Divine power has formed the whole scheme of nature, and
maintains nature in its course, so the same power thinks fit to
let his own actings with men, whether of mercy or judgment, to
go on in the ordinary course of natural causes, and he is pleased
to act by those natural causes as the ordinary means; excepting
and reserving to himself nevertheless a power to act in a super-
natural way when he sees occasion. Now it is evident that in
the case of an infection there is no apparent extraordinary occa-
sion for supernatural operation, but the ordinary course of things
DANIEL DEFOE
appears sufficiently armed and made capable of all the effects
that heaven usually directs by a contagion. Among these causes
and effects, this of the secret conveyance of infection, impercep-
tible and unavoidable, is more than sufficient to execute the
fierceness of Divine vengeance, without putting it upon super-
naturals and miracles.
This acute penetrating nature of the disease itself was such,
and the infection was received so imperceptibly, that the most
exact caution could not secure us while in the place; but I must
be allowed to believe, — and I have so many examples fresh in
my memory to convince me of it that I think none can resist
their evidence, — I say, I must be allowed to believe that no one
in this whole nation ever received the sickness or infection but
who received it in the ordinary way of infection from somebody,
or the clothes, or touch, or stench of somebody that was infected
before.
SPREAD OF THE PLAGUE THROUGH NECESSITIES OF THE POOR
Before people came to right notions of the infection, and
of infecting one another, people were only shy of those that
were really sick; a man with a cap upon his head, or with
cloths round his neck, which was the case of those that had
swellings there, — such was indeed frightful. But when we saw a
gentleman dressed, with his band on, and his gloves in his hand,
his hat upon his head, and his hair combed, of such we had not
the least apprehensions, and people conversed a great while
freely, especially with their neighbors and such as they knew.
But when the physicians assured us that the danger was as well
from the sound, — that is, the seemingly sound, — as the sick, and
that those people that thought themselves entirely free were often-
times the most fatal ; and that it came to be generally understood
that people were sensible of it, and of the reason of it; then, I
say, they began to be jealous of everybody, and a vast number of
people locked themselves up so as not to come abroad into any
company at all, nor suffer any that had been abroad in promis-
cuous company to come into their houses or near them; at least
not so near them as to be within the reach of their breath or of
any smell from them; and when they were obliged to con-
verse at a distance with strangers, they would always have
preservatives in their mouths, and about their clothes, to repel
and keep off the infection.
4e00 DANIEL DEFOE
It must be acknowledged that when people began to use these
cautions, they were less exposed to danger, and the infection did
not break into such houses so furiously as it did into others
before; and thousands of families were preserved, speaking with
due reserve to the direction of divine Providence, by that means.
But it was impossible to beat anything into the heads of the
poor; they went on with the usual impetuosity of their tempers,
full of outcries and lamentations when taken, but madly careless
of themselves, foolhardy and obstinate, while they were well.
Where they could get employment, they pushed into any kind of
business, the most dangerous and the most liable to infection;
and if they were spoken to, their answer would be : — (< I must
trust in God for that; if I am taken, then I am provided for,
and there is an end of me ; w and the like. Or thus : — (< Why,
what must I do ? I cannot starve ; I had as good have the
plague as perish for want; I have no work, what could I do?
I must do this or beg. w Suppose it was burying the dead, or
attending the sick, or watching infected houses, which were all
terrible hazards; but their tale was generally the same. It is
true, necessity was a justifiable, warrantable plea, and nothing
could be better; but their way of talk was much the same where
the necessities were not the same. This adventurous conduct of
the poor was that which brought the plague among them in a
most furious manner; and this, joined to the distress of their cir-
cumstances when taken, was the reason why they died so by
heaps; for I cannot say I could observe one jot of better hus-
bandry among them, — I mean the laboring poor, — while they
were all well and getting money, than there was before, but as
lavish, as extravagant, and as thoughtless for to-morrow as ever;
so that when they came to be taken sick, they were immedi-
ately in the utmost distress, as well for want as for sickness, as
well for lack of food as lack of health.
DANIEL DEFOE 450,
FROM < COLONEL JACK>
COLONEL JACK AND CAPTAIN JACK ESCAPE ARREST
WE HAD not parleyed thus long, but though in the dead of
the night, came a man to the other inn door — for as I
said above, there are two inns at that place — and called
for a pot of beer; but the people were all in bed, and would not
rise; he asked them if they had seen two fellows come that way
upon one horse. The man said he had; that they went by in
the afternoon, and asked the way to Cambridge, but did not stop
only to drink one mug. <( Oh ! w says he, (< are they gone to Cam-
bridge ? Then I'll be with them quickly. M I was awake in a
little garret of the next inn, where we lodged; and hearing the
fellow call at the door, got up and went to the window, having
some uneasiness at every noise I heard; and by that means heard
the whole story. Now the case is plain, our hour was not come;
our fate had determined other things for us, and we were to be
reserved for it. The matter was thus: — When we first came to
Bournbridge we called at the first house and asked the way
to Cambridge, drank a mug of beer, and went on, and they
might see us turn off to go the way they directed; but night
coming on, and we being very weary, we thought we should not
find the way; and we came back in the dusk of the evening and
went into the other house, being the first as we came back, as
that where we called before was the first as we went forward.
You may be sure I was alarmed now, as indeed I had reason
to be. The Captain was in bed and fast asleep, but I wakened
him, and roused him with a noise that frighted him enough.
<(Rise, Jack," said I, (<we are both ruined; they are come after
us hither. w Indeed, I was wrong to terrify him at that rate; for
he started and jumped out of bed and ran directly to the win-
dow, not knowing where he was, and not quite awake, was just
going to jump out of the window, but I laid hold of him.
"What are you going to do?" says I. (< I won't be taken," says
he ; (< let me alone ; where are they ? w
This was all confusion; and he was so out of himself with the
fright, and being overcome with sleep, that I had much to do to
prevent his jumping out of the window. However, I held him
fast and thoroughly wakened him, and then all was well again
and he was presently composed.
4502
DANIEL DEFOE
Then I told him the story, and we sat together upon the bed-
side, considering what we should do; upon the whole, as the fel-
low that called was apparently gone to Cambridge, we had
nothing to fear, but to be quiet till daybreak, and then to mount
and be gone.
Accordingly, as soon as day peeped we were up; and having
happily informed ourselves of the road at the other house, and
being told that the road to Cambridge turned off on the left
hand, and that the road to Newmarket lay straight forward: I
say, having learnt this, the Captain told me he would walk away
on foot towards Newmarket, and so when I came to go out I
should appear as a single traveler; and accordingly he went out
immediately, and away he walked, and he traveled so hard that
when I came to follow I thought once that he had dropped me,
for though I rode hard, I got no sight of him for an hour. At
length, having passed the great bank called the Devil's Ditch, I
found him and took him up behind me, and we rode double till
we came almost to the end of Newmarket town. Just at the
hither house in the town stood a horse at a door, just as it was
at Puckeridge. w Now, * says Jack, (< if the horse was at the
other end of the town I would have him, as sure as we had the
other at Puckeridge ; w but it would not do ; so he got down, and
walked through the town on the right-hand side of the way.
He had not got half through the town, but the horse, having
somehow or other got loose, came trotting gently on by himself,
and nobody following him. The Captain, an old soldier at such
work, as soon as the horse was got a pretty way before him, and
that he saw nobody followed, sets up a run after the horse, and
the horse, hearing him follow, ran the faster; then the Captain
calls out, (< Stop the horse ! w and by this time the horse was got
almost to the farther end of the town; the people of the house
where he stood not missing him all the while.
Upon his calling out <( Stop the horse ! w the poor people of
the town, such as were next at hand, ran from both sides of the
way and stopped the horse for him, as readily as could be, and
held him for him till he came up; he very gravely comes up to
the horse, hits him a blow or two, and calls him "dog" for run
ning away; gives the man twopence that catched him for him,
mounts, and away he comes after me.
This was the oddest adventure that could have happened, for
the horse stole the Captain, the Captain did not steal the horse.
DANIEL DEFOE
When he came up to me, <( Now, Colonel Jack," says he, "what
do you say to good luck ? Would you have had me refuse the
horse, when he came so civilly to ask me to ride ? M — "No, no,*
said I ; <( you have got this horse by your wit, not by design ; and
you may go on now, I think; you are in a safer condition than
I am, if we are taken. M
COLONEL JACK FINDS CAPTAIN JACK HARD TO MANAGE
We arrived here very easy and safe, and while we were con-
sidering of what way we should travel next, we found we were
got to a point, and that there was no way now left but that by
the Washes into Lincolnshire, and that was represented as very
dangerous; so an opportunity offering of a man that was travel-
ing over the fens, we took him for our guide, and went with him
to Spalding, and from thence to a town called Deeping, and so
to Stamford in Lincolnshire.
This is a large populous town, and it was market day when
we came to it; so we put in at a little house at the hither end
of the town, and walked into the town. Here it was not possible
to restrain my Captain from playing his feats of art, and my
heart ached for him; I told him I would not go with him, for he
would not promise to leave off, and I was so terribly concerned
at the apprehensions of his venturous humor that I would not so
much as stir out of my lodging; but it was in vain to persuade
him. He went into the market and found a mountebank there,
which was what he wanted. How he picked two pockets there
in one quarter of an hour, and brought to our quarters a piece
of new holland of eight or nine ells, a piece of stuff, and played
three or four pranks more in less than two hours; and how after-
wards he robbed a doctor of physic, and yet came off clear in
them: all this, I say, as above, belongs to his story, not mine.
I scolded heartily at him when he came back, and told him he
would certainly ruin himself and me too before he left off, and
threatened in so many words that I would leave him and go
back, and carry the horse to Puckeridge, where we borrowed it,
and so go to London by myself.
He promised amendment, but as we resolved (now we were
in the great road) to travel by night, so, it being not yet night,
he gives me the slip again; and was not gone half an hour, but
he comes back with a gold watch in his hand. <( Come, w says he,
4504 DANIEL DEFOE
"why ain't you ready? I am ready to go as soon as you will:"
and with that he pulls out the gold watch. I was amazed at
such a thing as that in a country town; but it seems there were
prayers at one of the churches in the evening, and he, placing
himself as the occasion directed, found the way to be so near a
lady as to get it from her side, and walked off with it unper-
ceived.
The same night we went away by moonlight, after having
the satisfaction to hear the watch cried, and ten guineas offered
for it again; he would have been glad of the ten guineas instead
of the watch, but durst not venture to carry it home. "Well,"
says I, (<you are afraid, and indeed you have reason; give it to
me ; I will venture to carry it again ; " but he would not let me,
but told me that when we came into Scotland we might se]l any-
thing there without danger; which was true indeed, for there
they asked us no questions.
We set out, as I said, in the evening by moonlight, and
traveled hard, the road being very plain and large, till we came
to Grantham, by which time it was about two in the morning,
and all the town as it were dead asleep; so we went on for
Newark, where we reached about eight in the morning, and there
we lay down and slept most of the day; and by this sleeping so
continually in the daytime, I kept him from doing a great deal
of mischief which he would otherwise have done.
COLONEL JACK'S FIRST WIFE is NOT DISPOSED TO BE ECONOMICAL
We soon found a house proper for our dwelling, and so went
to housekeeping; we had not been long together but I found
that gay temper of my wife returned, and she threw off the
mask of her gravity and good conduct that I had so long fancied
was her mere natural disposition, and now, having no more
occasion for disguises, she resolved to seem nothing but what
she really was, a wild untamed colt, perfectly loose, and careless
to conceal any part, no, not the worst of her conduct.
She carried on this air of levity to such an excess that I
could not but be dissatisfied at the expense of it, for she kept
company that I did not like, lived beyond what I could support,
and sometimes lost at play more than I cared to pay; upon
which one day I took occasion to mention it, but lightly, and
DANIEL DEFOE
45°5
said to her by way of raillery that we lived merrily for as long
as it would last. She turned short upon me : " What do you
mean ? w says she ; (< why, you do not pretend to be uneasy, do
ye?w <( No, no, madam, not I, by no means; it is no business
of mine, you know," said I, "to inquire what my wife spends,
or whether she spends more than I can afford, or less; I only
desire the favor to know, as near as you can guess, how long
you will please to take to dispatch me, for I would not be too
long a-dying. w
" I do not know what you talk of, M says she. w You may die
as leisurely or as hastily as you please, when your time comes;
I ain't a-going to kill you, as I know of. w
w But you are going to starve me, madam, * said I ; (< and
hunger is as leisurely a death as breaking upon the wheel."
(< I starve you ! why, are not you a great Virginia merchant,
and did not I bring you ^1500? What would you have? Sure,
you can maintain a wife out of that, can't you ? w
<( Yes, madam, w says I, (< I could maintain a wife, but not a
gamester, though you had brought me ^1500 a year; no estate
is big enough for a box and dice.M
She took fire at that, and flew out in a passion, and after a
great many bitter words told me in short that she saw no occa-
sion to alter her conduct; and as for not maintaining her, when
I could not maintain her longer she would find some way or
other to maintain herself.
Some time after the first rattle of this kind she vouchsafed to
let me know that she was pleased to be with child; I was at
first glad of it, in hopes it would help to abate her madness;
but it was all one, and her being with child only added to the
rest, for she made such preparations for her lying-in, and other
appendixes of a child's being born, that in short I found she
would be downright distracted; and I took the liberty to tell her
one day she would soon bring herself and me to destruction, and
entreated her to consider that such figures as those were quite
above us and out of our circle; and in short, that I neither
could nor would allow such expenses; that at this rate two or
three children would effectually ruin me, and that I desired her
to consider what she was doing.
She told me with an air of disdain that it was none of her
business to consider anything of that matter; that if I could not
allow it she would allow it herself, and I might do my worst.
45°6
DANIEL DEFOE
I begged her to consider things for all that, and not drive me
to extremities; that I married her to love and cherish her, and
use her as a good wife ought to be used, but not to be ruined
and undone by her. In a word, nothing could mollify her, nor
any argument persuade her to moderation; but withal she took it
so heinously that I should pretend to restrain her, that she told
me in so many words she would drop her burthen with me, and
then if I did not like it she would take care of herself; she
would not live with me an hour, for she would not be restrained,
not she; and talked a long while at that rate.
I told her, as to her child, which she called her burthen, it
should be no burthen to me; as to the rest she might do as she
pleased; it might however do me this favor, that I should have
no more lyings-in at the rate of ^136 at a time, as I found she
intended it should be now. She told me she could not tell that;
if she had no more by me, she hoped she should by somebody
else. <( Say you so, madam ? }> said I ; (< then they that get them
shall keep them.* She did not know that neither, she said, and
so turned it off jeering, and as it were laughing at me.
This last discourse nettled me, I must confess, and the more
because I had a great deal of it and very often; till, in short,
we began at length to enter into a friendly treaty about parting.
Nothing could be more criminal than the several discourses
we had upon this subject; she demanded a separate maintenance,
and in particular, at the rate of ^300 a year; and I demanded
security of her that she should not run me in debt; she demand-
ing the keeping of the child, with an allowance of £100 a year
for that, and I demanding that I should be secured from being
charged for keeping any she might have by somebody else, as
she had threatened me.
In the interval, and during these contests, she dropped her
burthen (as she called it), and brought me a son, a very fine
child.
She was content during her lying-in to abate a little, though
it was but a very little indeed, of the great expense she had
intended; and with some difficulty and persuasion was content
with a suit of child-bed linen of ^15 instead of one she had
intended of threescore; and this she magnified as a particular
testimony of her condescension, and a yielding to my avaricious
temper, as she called it.
DANIEL DEFOE
45°7
THE DEVIL DOES NOT CONCERN HIMSELF WITH PETTY
MATTERS
From <The Modern History of the Devil >
NOR will I undertake to tell you, till I have talked farther
with him about it, how far the Devil is concerned to dis-
cover frauds, detect murders, reveal secrets, and espe-
cially to tell where any money is hid, and show folks where to
find it; it is an odd thing that Satan should think it of conse-
quence to come and tell us where such a miser hid a strong box,
or where such an old woman buried her chamberpot full of
money, the value of all which is perhaps but a trifle, when,
at the same time he lets so many veins of gold, so many un-
exhausted mines, nay, mountains of silver (as we may depend on
it are hid in the bowels of the earth, and which it would be so
much to the good of whole nations to discover), lie still there,
and never say one word of them to anybody. Besides, how does
the Devil's doing things so foreign to himself, and so out of his
way, agree with the rest of his character; namely, showing a
friendly disposition to mankind, or doing beneficent things?
This is so beneath Satan's quality, and looks so little, that I
scarce know what to say to it; but that which is still more pun-
gent in the case is, these things are so out of his road, and so
foreign to his calling, that it shocks our faith in them, and seems
to clash with all the just notions we have of him and of his
business in the world. The like is to be said of those merry
little turns we bring him in acting with us and upon us upon
trifling and simple occasions, such as tumbling chairs and stools
about house, setting pots and kettles bottom upward, tossing
the glass and crockery-ware about without breaking, and such-
like mean foolish things, beneath the dignity of the Devil, who
in my opinion is rather employed in setting the world with the
bottom upward, tumbling kings and crowns about, and dashing
the nations one against another; raising tempests and storms,
whether at sea or on shore; and in a word, doing capital mis-
chiefs, suitable to his nature and agreeable to his name Devil,
and suited to that circumstance of his condition which I have
fully represented in the primitive part of his exiled state.
But to bring in the Devil playing at push-pin with the world,
or like Domitian, catching flies, — that is to say, doing nothing to
4508
DANIEL DEFOE
the purpose, — this is not only deluding ourselves, but putting a
slur upon the Devil himself; and I say, I shall not dishonor
Satan so much as to suppose anything in it; however, as I must
have a care too how I take away the proper materials of winter-
evening frippery, and leave the goodwives nothing of the Devil
to frighten the children with, I shall carry the weighty point no
farther. No doubt the Devil and Dr. Faustus were very inti-
mate; I should rob you of a very significant proverb if I should
so much as ' doubt it. No doubt the Devil showed himself in the
glass to that fair lady who looked in to see where to place her
patches; but then it should follow too that the Devil is an enemy
to the ladies wearing patches, and that has some difficulties in it
which we cannot easily reconcile; but we must tell the story,
and leave out the consequences.
DEFOE ADDRESSES HIS PUBLIC
From <An Appeal to Honor and Justice >
I HOPE the time has come at last when the voice of moderate
principles may be heard. Hitherto the noise has been so
great, and the prejudices and passions of men so strong, that
it had been but in vain to offer at any argument, or for any
man to talk of giving a reason for his actions; and this alone
has been the cause why, when other men, who I think have less
to say in their own defense, are appealing to the public and strug-
gling to defend themselves, I alone have been silent under the infi-
nite clamors and reproaches, causeless curses, unusual threatenings,
and the most unjust and unjurious treatment in the world.
I hear much of people's calling out to punish the guilty, but
very few are concerned to clear the innocent. I hope some will
be inclined to judge impartially, and have yet reserved so much
of the Christian as to believe, and at least to hope, that a
rational creature cannot abandon himself so as to act without
some reason, and are willing not only to have me defend myself,
but to be able to answer for me where they hear me causelessly
insulted by others, and therefore are willing to have such just
arguments put into their mouths as the cause will bear.
As for those who are prepossessed, and according to the
modern justice of parties are resolved to be so, let them go; I
DANIEL DEFOE
45°9
am not arguing with them, but against them; they act so contrary
to justice, to reason, to religion, so contrary to the rules of
Christians and of good manners, that they are not to be argued
with, but to be exposed or entirely neglected. I have a receipt
against all the uneasiness which it may be supposed to give me,
and that is, to contemn slander, and think it not worth the least
concern; neither should I think it worth while to give any
answer to it, if it were not on some other accounts, of which I
shall speak as I go on. If any young man ask me why I am in
such haste to publish this matter at this time, among many other
good reasons which I could give, these are some : —
1. I think I have long enough been made Fabula Vulgi, and
borne the weight of general slander; and I should be wanting to
truth, to my family, and to myself, if I did not give a fair and
true state of my conduct, for impartial men to judge of when I
am no more in being to answer for myself.
2. By the hints of mortality, and by the infirmities of a life
of sorrow and fatigue, I have reason to think I am not a great
way off from, if not very near to, the great ocean of eternity,
and the time may not be long ere I embark on the last voyage.
Wherefore I think I should even accounts with this world before
I go, that no actions [slanders] may lie against my heirs, execu-
tors, administrators, and assigns, to disturb them in the peaceable
possession of their father's [character] inheritance.
3. I fear — God grant I have not a second sight in it — that
this lucid interval of temper and moderation which shines,
though dimly too, upon us at this time, will be of but short
continuance; and that some men, who know not how to use the
advantage God has put into their hands with moderation, will
push, in spite of the best Prince in the world, at such extravagant
things, and act with such an intemperate forwardness, as will
revive the heats and animosities which wise and good men were
in hopes should be allayed by the happy accession of the King to
the throne.
It is and ever was my opinion, that moderation is the only
virtue by which the peace and tranquillity of this nation can be
preserved. Even the King himself — I believe his Majesty will
allow me that freedom — can only be happy in the enjoyment of
the crown by a moderative administration. If his Majesty should
be obliged, contrary to his known disposition, to join with intem-
perate councils, if it does not lessen his security I am persuaded
DANIEL DEFOE
it will lessen his satisfaction. It cannot be pleasant or agree-
able, and I think it cannot be safe, to any just prince to rule
over a divided people, split into incensed and exasperated parties.
Though a skillful mariner may have courage to master a tem-
pest, and goes fearless through a storm, yet he can never be
said to delight in the danger; a fresh fair gale and a quiet sea
is the pleasure of his voyage, and we have a saying worth
notice to them that are otherwise minded, — <( Quit ama periculum,
periebat in illo. *
ENGAGING A MAID-SERVANT
From < Everybody's Business is Nobody's Business >
BESIDES, the fear of spoiling their clothes makes them afraid of
household work, so that in a little time we shall have none
but chambermaids and nurserymaids; and of this let me
give you one instance. My family is composed of myself and
sister, a man and maid; and being without the last, a young
wench came to hire herself. The man was gone out, and my
sister above-stairs, so I opened the door myself, and this person
presented herself to my view, dressed completely, more like a
visitor than a servant-maid; she, not knowing me, asked for my
sister. (( Pray, madam, w said I, <(be pleased to walk into the parlor;
she shall wait on you presently. " Accordingly I handed madam
in, who took it very cordially. After some apology I left her
alone for a minute or two, while I, stupid wretch! ran up to my
sister and told her there was a gentlewoman below come to visit
her. <( Dear brother, }> said she, <( don't leave her alone ; go down and
entertain her while I dress myself." Accordingly down I went,
and talked of indifferent affairs; meanwhile my sister dressed her-
self all over again, not being willing to be seen in an undress.
At last she came down dressed as clean as her visitor; but how
great was my surprise when I found my fine lady a common
servant- wench.
My sister, understanding what she was, began to inquire what
wages she expected. She modestly asked but eight pounds a
year. The next question was, <(What work she could do to
deserve such wages ? w to which she answered she could clean a
house, or dress a common family dinner. (< But cannot you wash, w
replied my sister, <( or get up linen ? )} She answered in the
DANIEL DEFOE
45 1 1
negative, and said she would undertake neither, nor would she
go into a family that did not put out their linen to wash and
hire a charwoman to scour. She desired to see the house, and
having carefully surveyed it, said the work was too hard for her,
nor could she undertake it. This put my sister beyond all
patience, and me into the greatest admiration. "Young woman,*
she said, <( you have made a mistake ; I want a housemaid, and
you are a chambermaid." w No, madam," replied she, <( I am not
needlewoman enough for that. " <( And yet you ask eight pounds a
year," replied my sister. "Yes, madam, " said she, (<nor shall I
bate a farthing. " <( Then get you gone for a lazy impudent bag-
gage,M said I; "you want to be a boarder, not a servant; have
you a fortune or estate, that you dress at that rate?" "No, sir,"
said she, <(but I hope I may wear what I work for without
offense. " " What ! you work ? " interrupted my sister ; " why, you
do not seem willing to undertake any work; you will not wash
nor scour; you cannot dress a dinner for company; you are no
needlewoman; and our little house of two rooms on a floor is too
much for you. For God's sake, what can you do?" (< Madam,"
replied she pertly, " I know my business, and do not fear service ;
there are more places than parish churches: if you wash at
home, you should have a laundrymaid ; if you give entertainments,
you must have a cookmaid; if you have any needlework, you
should have a chambermaid; and such a house as this is enough
for a housemaid, in all conscience."
I was so pleased at the wit, and astonished at the impudence
of the girl, so dismissed her with thanks for her instructions,
assuring her that when I kept four maids she should be house-
maid if she pleased.
THE DEVIL
From < The True-Born Englishman >
WHEREVER God erects a house of prayer,
The Devil always builds a chapel there;
And 'twill be found upon examination,
The latter has the largest congregation.
For ever since he first debauched the mind,
He made a perfect conquest of mankind.
With uniformity of service, he
Reigns with general aristocracy.
4eI2 DANIEL DEFOE
No non-conforming sects disturb his reign,
For of his yoke there's very few complain.
He knows the genius and the inclination,
And matches proper sins for every nation.
He needs no standing army government;
He always rules us by our own consent;
His laws are easy, and his gentle sway
Makes it exceeding pleasant to obey.
The list of his vicegerents and commanders
Outdoes your Caesars or your Alexanders.
They never fail of his infernal aid,
And he's as certain ne'er to be betrayed.
Through all the world they spread his vast command,
And death's eternal empire is maintained.
They rule so politicly and so well,
As if they were Lords Justices of hell;
Duly divided to debauch mankind,
And plant infernal dictates in his mind.
THERE IS A GOD
From <The Storm >
FOR in the darkest of the black abode
There's not a devil but believes a God.
Old Lucifer has sometimes tried
To have himself deified;
But devils nor men the being of God denied,
Till men of late found out new ways to sin,
And turned the devil out to let the Atheist in.
But when the mighty element began,
And storms the weighty truth explain,
Almighty power upon the whirlwind rode,
And every blast proclaimed aloud
There is, there is, there is a God.
45'3
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER
(1820-1887)
| EN years after * Uncle Tom's Cabin, } there appeared in Am-
sterdam a book that caused as great a sensation among the
Dutch coffee-traders on the Amstel, as had Harriet Beecher
Stowe's wonderful story among the slaveholders at the South. This
book was ( Max Havelaar, } and its author, veiled under the sug-
gestive pen-name of ftMultatuli>> ("who have suffered much"), at once
became famous. It frankly admitted that it was a novel with a pur-
pose, and this purpose was to bring home to his countrymen the
untold sufferings and oppression to which the natives of the Dutch
East Indies were subjected, in order that the largest possible profit
might flow into the coffers of the people of Holland. Multatuli,
under the disguise of fiction, professed to give facts he had himself
'collected on the spot.
Eduard Douwes Dekker, born in 1820 in Amsterdam, went as a
youth of seventeen to the Dutch colonies. There for nearly twenty
years he was in the employ of the government, obtaining at last the
post of Assistant Resident of Lebak, a province of Java. In this
responsible position he used his influence to stem the abuses and
extortions practiced by the native chiefs against the defenseless pop-
ulace. But his humanitarianism clashed with the interests of his
government, and sacrificing a brilliant career to a principle, he sent
in his resignation and returned to Holland in 1856 a poor man. He
began to put his experiences on paper, and in 1860 published the
book that made him famous. ( Max Havelaar * is a bitter arraign-
ment of the Dutch colonial system, and gives a more excruciating
picture of the slavery of the natives of fair "Insulind* than ever
existed in the South. For nearly three hundred years Dutch burghers
on the Scheldt, the Maas, and the Amstel, have waxed fat on the
labors of the Malays of the far East. In these islands of the East-
Indian Archipelago the relations between the Europeans and the
Dutch are peculiar, based on the policy of the government of getting
the largest possible revenues out of these fertile possessions. Prac-
tically the native is a Dutch subject, and the product of his labor
goes directly to Holland; nominally he is still ruled by his tribal
chief, to whom he is blindly and superstitiously devoted. Playing on
this feudal attachment, the Dutch, while theoretically pledging them-
selves to protect the defenseless populace against rapacity, have yet
vin — 283
so arranged the administration that the chiefs have unlimited oppor-
tunities of extortion. They are paid premiums on whatever their
provinces furnish for the foreign market, and as they have prac-
tically full control over the persons and property of their subjects,
they force these poor wretches to contribute whatever they may
demand in unpaid labor and provisions, besides the land taxes.
And there is yet another hardship. Rice is the staple product of
Java, but as that does not pay so well as coffee, sugar, indigo, or
spices, the Javanese is driven away from the rice fields he loves, and
famine is often the result.
« Famine ? in Java, the rich and fertile, famine ? Yes, reader, a few
years ago whole districts were depopulated by famine ; mothers offered to sell
their children for food; mothers ate their own children. But then the mother
country interfered. In the halls of the Dutch Parliament complaints were
made, and the then reigning governor had to give orders that THE EXTENSION
OF THE SO-CALLED EUROPEAN MARKET SHOULD NO LONGER BE PUSHED TO THE
EXTREMITY OF FAMINE. »
The book is an eloquent plea for more humane treatment of these
wretches. In glowing colors Dekker paints the condition of Java,
its scenery, its inhabitants, the extortions of the native regents, and
the rapacity of the European traders. The truth of these accusa-
tions has never been disputed; indeed, it has been said that he kept
on this side of exaggeration. At the International Congress for the
Promotion of Social Science, at Amsterdam in 1863, he challenged his
critics to prove him false, but no one came forward. One high gov-
ernment official indeed said that he could refute (Max Havelaar, > but
that it was not in his interest to do so.
Despite the sensation the book made, affairs in the East remained
pretty much the same as before. Dekker tried in vain to get some
influence in Holland, but he had killed himself politically by avow-
ing that (Max Havelaar > was not written in the interests of either
party, but was the utterance of a champion of humanity. Thor-
oughly disappointed in his countrymen, he exiled himself and went
to live in Germany in 1866. But he did not therefore lay down a
pen that had become in his hands a powerful weapon. He published
a number of books on political, social, and philosophic subjects, in the
form of stories, dramas, aphorisms, or polemics. Noteworthy among
these are his fine parables, the novel ( La Sainte Vierge * (The Holy
Virgin) ; the drama in blank, ( Vorstenschool > (School for Princes), con-
taining many fine thoughts, and still one of the most popular plays
of the day; and the incomplete < Geschiedem's van Wontertje Pieterse*
(Story of Wontertje Pieterse), published in 1888 by his widow, who
also brought out his letters, and in 1892 a complete edition of his
works.
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER 4515
The writings of Dekker are marked by a fiery yet careful style,
Oriental richness of imagery, and originality and independence of
thought. He wrote as social reformer, and attacked with unrivaled
power of sarcasm all manner of cant, sham, and red-tape. His works
betray the disappointment of a defeated idealist. He was a man of
marked individuality, and strongly attracted or repelled people. For
the last few years of his life he ceased to write, and lived in retire-
ment in Nieder-Ingelheim on the Rhine, where he died February
i9th, 1887.
MULTATULI'S LAST WORDS TO THE READER
YES, I, Multatuli, (< who have suffered much," — I take the pen.
I do not make any excuses for the form of my book, — that
form was thought proper to obtain my object. . . . /
will be read ! Yes, I will be read. I will be read by statesmen
who are obliged to pay attention to the signs of the times; by
men of letters, who must also look into the book of which so
many bad things are said; by merchants, who have an interest
in the coffee auctions; by lady's-maids, who read me for a few
farthings; by governors-general in retirement; by ministers who
have something to do; by the lackeys of these Excellencies; by
mutes, who, more maforum, will say that I attack God Almighty,
when I attack only the god which they made according to their
own image; by the members of the representative chambers,
who must know what happens in the extensive possessions over
the sea which belong to Holland. . . .
Ay, I shall be read!
When I obtain this I shall be content, for I did not intend to
write well. ... I wished to write so as to be heard; and as
one who cries (< Stop thief ! w does not care about the style of his
impromptu address to the public, I too am indifferent to criti-
cism of the manner in which I cried my (< Stop thief ! w
(< The book is a medley ; there is no order, nothing but a
desire to make a sensation. The style is bad; the author is inex-
perienced; no talent, no method. w . . .
Good! good! . . ,- all very well! . . . but the Javanese
are ill-treated. For the merit of my book is this: that refutation
of its main features is impossible. And the greater the disappro-
bation of my book the better I shall be pleased, for the chance
of being heard will be so much the greater; — and that is what
I desire.
45l6
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER
But you whom I dare to interrupt in your business or in
your retirement, — ye ministers and governors-general, — do not
calculate too much upon the inexperience of my pen. I could
exercise it, and perhaps by dint of some exertion, attain to that
skill which would make the truth heard by the people. Then I
should ask of that people a place in the representative cham-
bers, were it only to protest against the certificates which are
given vice versa by Indian functionaries.
To protest against the endless expeditions sent, and heroic
deeds performed against poor miserable creatures, whose ill treat-
ment has driven them to revolt.
To protest against the cowardice of general orders, that brand
the honor of the nation by invoking public charity on behalf of
the victims of inveterate piracy.
It is true those rebels were reduced by starvation to skeletons,
while those pirates could defend themselves.
And if that place were refused me, ... if I were still
disbelieved, . . . then I should translate my book into the
few languages that I know, and the many that I yet can learn,
to put that question to Europe which I have in vain put to
Holland.
And in every capital such a refrain as this would be heard:
(< There is a band of robbers between Germany and the Scheldt ! w
And if this were of no avail, . . . then I should translate
my book into Malay, Javanese, Soudanese, Alfoer, Boegi, and
Battah.
And I should sharpen Klewangs, the scimitars and the sabres,
by rousing with warlike songs the minds of those martyrs whom
I have promised to help — I, Multatuli, would do this!
Yes! delivery and help, lawfully if possible; — lawfully with
violence if need be.
And that would be very pernicious to the COFFEE AUCTIONS
OF THE DUTCH TRADING COMPANY!
For I am no fly-rescuing poet, no rapt dreamer like the
down-trodden Havelaar, who did his duty with the courage of a
lion and endured starvation with the patience of a marmot in
winter.
This book is an introduction. . .
I shall increase in strength and sharpness of weapons, accord-
ing as it may be necessary.
Heaven grant that it may not be necessary ! . . .
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER
No, it will not be necessary! For it is to thee I dedicate my
book: WILLIAM THE THIRD, King, Grand Duke, Prince, . . .
more than Prince, Grand Duke, and King, . . . EMPEROR of
the magnificent empire of INSULIND, which winds about the equa-
tor like a garland of emeralds! . . .
I ask THEE if it be thine IMPERIAL will that the Havelaars
should be bespattered with the mud of Slymerings and Dry-
stubbles; and that thy more than thirty millions of SUBJECTS far
away should be ill treated and should suffer extortion in THY
name!
From <Max Havelaar.>
IDYLL OF SAifDJAH AND ADINDA
From <Max Havelaar>
SALDJAH'S father had a buffalo, with which he plowed his
field. When this buffalo was taken away from him by the
district chief at Parang- Koodjang he was very dejected, and
did not speak a word for many a day. For the time for plow-
ing was come, and he had to fear that if the rice field was not
worked in time, the opportunity to sow would be lost, and lastly,
that there would be no paddy to cut, none to keep in the store-
room of the house. He feared that his wife would have no rice,
nor Said j ah himself, who was still a child, nor his little broth-
ers and sisters. And the district chief too would accuse him to
the Assistant Resident if he was behindhand in the payment of
his land taxes, for this is punished by the law. Sai'djah's father
then took a poniard which was an heirloom from his father.
The poniard was not very handsome, but there were silver bands
round the sheath, and at the end there was a silver plate. He
sold this poniard to a Chinaman who dwelt in the capital, and
came home with twenty-four guilders, for which money he
bought another buffalo.
Sai'djah, who was then about seven years old, soon made
friends with the new buffalo. It is not without meaning that I
say <(made friends,* for it is indeed touching to see how the
buffalo is attached to the little boy who watches over and feeds
him. The large strong animal bends its heavy head to the
right, to the left, or downward, just as the pressure of the child's
finger, which he knows and understands, directs.
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER
Such a friendship little Sai'djah had soon been able to make
with the new-comer. The buffalo turned willingly on reaching
the end of the field, and did not lose an inch of ground when
plowing backwards the new furrow. Quite near were the rice
fields of the father of Adinda (the child that was to marry Sai'd-
jah) ; and when the little brothers of Adinda came to the limit of
their fields just at the same time that the father of Sai'djah was
there with his plow, then the children called out merrily to
each other, and each praised the strength and the docility of his
buffalo. Sai'djah was nine and Adinda six, when this buffalo was
taken by the chief of the district of Parang- Koodjang. Sai'djah's
father, who was very poor, thereupon sold to a Chinaman two
silver curtain -hooks — heirlooms from the parents of his wife —
for eighteen guilders, and bought a new buffalo.
When this buffalo had also been taken away and slaughtered —
(I told you, reader, that my story is monotonous)
. . . Sai'djah's father fled out of the country, for he was
much afraid of being punished for not paying his land taxes, and
he had not another heirloom to sell, that he might buy a new
buffalo. However, he went on for some years after the loss of
his last buffalo, by working with hired animals for plowing; but
that is a very ungrateful labor, and moreover sad for a person
who has had buffaloes of his own.
Sai'djah's mother died of grief; and then it was that his
father, in a moment of dejection, fled from Bantam in order to
endeavor to get labor in the Buitenzorg districts.
But he was punished with stripes because he had left Lebak
without a passport, and was brought back by the police to
Badoer. But he was not long in prison, for he died soon after-
wards. Sai'djah was already fifteen years of age when his father
set out for Buitenzorg; and he did not accompany him hither,
because he had other plans in view. He had been told that there
were at Batavia many gentlemen who drove in two-wheeled
carriages, and that it would be easy for him to get a post as
driver. He would gain much in that way if he behaved well, —
perhaps be able to save in three years enough money to buy
two buffaloes. This was a smiling prospect for him. He en-
tered Adinda's house, and communicated to her his plans.
<( Think of it ! when I come back, we shall be old enough to
marry and shall possess two buffaloes: . . . but if I find you
married ? w
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER
45'9
" Sai'djah, you know very well that I shall marry nobody but
you; my father promised me to your father."
(< And you yourself ? M
" I shall marry you, you may be sure of that. M
w When I come back, I will call from afar off. M
<( Who shall hear it, if we are stamping rice in the village ? M
"That is true, . . . but Adinda— ... oh yes, this is
better; wait for me under the oak wood, under the Retapan."
" But Saidjah, how can I know when I am to go to the
Retapan ? w
"Count the moons; I shall stay away three times twelve
moons. . . . See, Adinda, at every new moon cut a notch in
your rice block. When you have cut three times twelve lines, I
will be under the Retapan the next day: ... do you promise
to be there ? »
"Yes, Sai'djah, I will be there under the Retapan, near the
oak wood, when you come back. w
[Saidjah returns with money and trinkets at the appointed time, but does
not find Adinda under the Retapan.]
But if she were ill or ... dead ?
Like a wounded stag Saidjah flew along the path leading
from the Retapan to the village where Adinda lived. But . . .
was it hurry, his eagerness, that prevented him from finding
Adinda's house ? He had already rushed to the end of the road,
through the village, and like one mad he returned and beat his
head because he must have passed her house without seeing it.
But again he was at the entrance to the village, and . . .
O God, was it a dream ? .
Again he had not found the house of Adinda. Again he flew
back and suddenly stood still. . . . And the women of Badoer
came out of their houses, and saw with sorrow poor Saidjah
standing there, for they knew him and understood that he was
looking for the house of Adinda, and they knew that there was
no house of Adinda in the village of Badoer.
For when the district chief of Parang-Koodjang had taken
away Adinda's father's buffaloes . . .
(I told you, reader! that my narrative was monotonous.)
. . . Adinda's mother died of grief, and her baby sister
died because she had no mother, and had no one to suckle her.
EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER
And Adinda's father, who feared to be punished for not paying
his land taxes . . .
(I know, I know that my tale is monotonous.)
. . . had fled out of the country; he had taken Adinda
and her brother with him. He had gone to Tjilang-Rahan, bor-
dering on the sea. There he had concealed himself in the woods
and waited for some others that had been robbed of their buffa-
loes by the district chief of Parang- Koodjang, and all of whom
feared punishment for not paying their land taxes. Then they
had at night taken possession of a fishing boat, and steered north-
ward to the Lampoons.
[Sai'djah, following their route] arrived in the Lampoons,
where the inhabitants were in insurrection against the Dutch
rule. He joined a troop of Badoer men, not so much to fight as
to seek Adinda; for he had a tender heart, and was more dis-
posed to sorrow than to bitterness.
One day that the insurgents had been beaten, he wandered
through a village that had just been taken by the Dutch, and
was therefore in flames. Sai'djah knew that the troop that had
been destroyed there consisted for the most part of Badoer men.
He wandered like a ghost among the houses which were not
yet burned down, and found the corpse of Adinda's father with
a bayonet wound in the breast. Near him Sai'djah saw the three
murdered brothers of Adinda, still only children, and a little fur-
ther lay the corpse of Adinda, naked and horribly mutilated.
Then Sai'djah went to meet some soldiers who were driving,
at the point of the bayonet, the surviving insurgents into the fire
of the burning houses; he embraced the broad bayonets, pressed
forward with all his might, and still repulsed the soldiers with a
last exertion, until their weapons were buried to the sockets in
his breast.
4521
THOMAS DEKKER
(I57o?-i637?)
IHOMAS DEKKER, the genial realist, the Dickens of Jacobean
London, has left in his works the impress of a most lovable
personality, but the facts with which to surround that per-
sonality are of the scantiest. He was born about 1570 in London; at
least in 1637 he speaks of himself as over threescore years of age.
This is the only clue we have to the date of his birth. He came
probably of a tradesman's family, for he describes better than any of
his fellows in art the life of the lower middle class, and enters into
the thoughts and feelings of that class with a heartiness which is
possible only after long and familiar association. He was not a
university man, but absorbed his classical knowledge as Shakespeare
did, through association with the wits of his time.
He is first mentioned in Henslowe's diary in 1597, and after that
his name appears frequently. He was evidently a dramatic hack,
working for that manager, adapting and making over old plays and
writing new ones. He must have been popular too, for his name
appears oftener than that of any of his associates. Yet his industry
and popularity could not always keep him above water. Henslowe
was not a generous paymaster, and the unlucky dramatist knew the
inside of the debtor's prison cell; more than once the manager ad-
vanced sums to bail him out. Oldys says he was in prison from 1613
to 1616. After 1637 we find his name no more.
As a dramatist, Dekker was most active between the years 1598
and 1602. In one of those years alone he was engaged on twelve
plays. Many of these have been lost; of the few that remain, two
of the most characteristic belong to this period. ( The Shoemaker's
Holiday,* published in 1599, shows Dekker on his genial, realistic
side, with his sense of fun and his hearty sympathy with the life of
the people. It bubbles over with the delight in mere living, and is
full of kindly feeling toward all the world. It was sure to appeal to
its audience, especially to the pit, where the tradesmen and artisans
with their wives applauded, and noisiest of all, the 'prentices shouted
their satisfaction : here they saw themselves and their masters brought
on the stage, somewhat idealized, but still full of frolic and good-
nature. It is one of the brightest and pleasantest of Elizabethan
comedies. Close on its heels followed ( The Pleasant Comedy of Old
Fortunatus.* Here Dekker the idealist, the poet of luxurious fancy
THOMAS DEKKER
and rich yet delicate imagination, is seen at his best. Fortunatus with
his wishing-hat and wonderful purse appealed to the romantic spirit
of the time, when men still sailed in search of the Hesperides, com-
pounded the elixir of youth, and sought for the philosopher's stone.
Dekker worked over an old play of the same name; the subject of
both was taken from the old German volksbuch ( Fortunatus ) of 1519.
Among the collaborators of Dekker at this time was Ben Jonson.
Both these men were realists, but Jonson slashed into life with
bitter satire, whereas Dekker cloaked over its frailties with a tender
humor. Again, Jonson was a conscientious artist, aiming at per-
fection ; Dekker, while capable of much higher poetry, was often
careless and slipshod. No wonder that the dictator scorned his some-
what irresponsible co-worker. The precise nature of their quarrel,
one of the most famous among authors, is not known; it culminated
in 1 60 1, when Jonson produced (The Poetaster,* a play in which
Dekker and Marston were mercilessly ridiculed. Dekker replied
shortly in ( Satiromastix, or the Untrussing of the Humorous Poet,* a
burlesque full of good-natured mockery of his antagonist.
Dekker wrote, in conjunction with Webster, ( Westward Ho,1
Northward Ho,* and < Sir Thomas Wyatt*; with Middleton, <The
Roaring Girl*; with Massinger, (The Virgin Martyr*; and with Ford,
<The Sun's Darling* and ( The Witch of Edmonton.* Among the
products of Dekker's old age, ( Match Me in London * is ranked among
his half-dozen best plays, and <The Wonder of a Kingdom* is fair
journeyman's work.
One of the most versatile of the later Elizabethans, — .prolonging
their style and ideas into the new world of the Stuarts, — Dekker was
also prominent as pamphleteer. He first appeared as such in 1603,
with < The Wonderfull Yeare 1603, wherein is showed the picture of
London lying sicke of the Plague,* a vivid description of the pest,
which undoubtedly served Defoe as model in his famous book on the
same subject. The best known of his many pamphlets, however, is
(The Gul's Home Booke,* a graphic description of the ways and man-
ners of the gallants of the time. These various tracts are invaluable
for the light they throw on the social life of Jacobean London.
Lastly, Dekker as song-writer must not be forgotten. He had the
genuine lyric gift, and poured forth his bird-notes, sweet, fresh, and
spontaneous, full of the singer's joy in his song. He also wrote some
very beautiful prayers.
Varied and unequal as Dekker's work is, he is one of the hardest
among the Elizabethans to classify. He at times rises to the very
heights of poetic inspiration, soaring above most of his contempo-
raries, to drop all of a sudden down to a dead level of prose. But
he makes up for his shortcomings by his whole-hearted, manly view
THOMAS DEKKKR
4523
of life, his compassion for the weak, his sympathy with the lowly,
his determination to make the best of everything, and to show the
good hidden away under the evil.
<(Toil, envy, want, the patron and the jail," —
these he knew from bitter experience, yet never allowed them to
overcloud his buoyant spirits, but made them serve his artistic pur-
poses. Joyousness is the prevailing note of his work, mingled with a
pathetic undertone of patience.
FROM <THE GUL'S HORNE BOOKE >
How A GALLANT SHOULD BEHAVE HIMSELF IN POWLES WALK*
Now for your venturing into the Walke: be circumspect and
wary what piller you come in at, and take heed in any
case (as you love the reputation of your honour) that you
avoide the serving-man' 's dogg; but bend your course directly in
the middle line, that the whole body of the Church may appear
to be yours; where, in view of all, you may publish your suit
in what manner you affect most, either with the slide of your
cloake from the one shoulder, and then you must (as twere in
anger) suddenly snatch at the middle of the inside (if it be taf-
fata at the least) and so by the meanes your costly lining is
betrayed, or else by the pretty advantage of complement. But
one note by the way do I especially wooe you to, the neglect of
which makes many of our gallants cheape and ordinary ; that you
by no means be seen above fowre turnes, but in the fifth make
your selfe away, either in some of the Sempsters' shops, the new
Tobacco-office, or amongst the Bookesellers, where, if you cannot
reade, exercise your smoke, and inquire who has writ against this
divine weede, &c. For this withdrawing yourselfe a little will
much benefite your suit, which else by too long walking would
be stale to the whole spectators: but howsoever, if Powles Jacks
be up with their elbowes, and quarrelling to strike eleven, as soone
as ever the clock has parted them and ended the fray with his
hammer, let not the Duke's gallery conteyne you any longer, but
passe away apace in open view. In which departure, if by chance
you either encounter, or aloofe off throw your inquisitive eye
upon any knight or squire, being your familiar, salute him not
*Tbe middle aisle of St. Paul's in London was the fashionable walk.
4524
THOMAS DEKKER
by his name of Sir such a one, or so, but call him Ned or Jack,
&c. This will set off your estimation with great men: and if
(tho there bee a dozen companies betweene you, tis the better)
hee call aloud to you (for thats most gentile), to know where he
shall find you at two a clock, tell him at such an Ordinary, or
such; and bee sure to name those that are deerest; and whither
none but your gallants resort. After dinner you may appeare
againe, having translated yourselfe out of your English cloth
cloak, into a light Turky-grogram (if you have that happiness- of
shifting) and then be seene (for a turn or two) to correct your
teeth with some quill or silver instrument, and to cleanse your
gummes with a wrought handkercher: It skilles not whether you
dinde or no (thats best knowne to your stomach) or in what place
you dinde, though it were with cheese (of your owne mother's
making, in your chamber or study). . . . Suck this humour
up especially. Put off to none, unlesse his hatband be of a
newer fashion than yours, and three degrees quainter; but for
him that wears a trebled cipres about his hatte (though he were
an Alderman's sonne), never move to him; for hees suspected to
be worse than a gull and not worth the putting off to, that can-
not observe the time of his hatband, nor know what fashioned
block is most kin to his head: for in my opinion, ye braine
that cannot choose his felt well (being the head ornament) must
needes powre folly into all the rest of the members, and be an
absolute confirmed foule in Summd Totali. . . . The great
dyal is your last monument; these bestow some half of the
threescore minutes, to observe the sawciness of the Jaikes that
are above the man in the moone there; the strangenesse of the
motion will quit your labour. Besides you may heere have fit
occasion to discover your watch, by taking it forth and setting
the wheeles to the time of Powles, which, I assure you, goes truer
by five notes then S. Sepulchers chimes. The benefit that will
arise from hence is this, that you publish your charge in main-
taining a gilded clocke; and withall the world shall know that
you are a time-server. By this I imagine you have walkt your
bellyful, and thereupon being weary, or (which rather I believe)
being most gentlemanlike hungry, it is fit that I brought you
in to the Duke; so (because he follows the fashion of great men,
in keeping no house, and that therefore you must go seeke your
dinner) suffer me to take you by the hand, and lead you into an
Ordinary.
THOMAS DEKKER 4525
SLEEP
Do BUT consider what an excellent thing sleep is; it is so in-
estimable a jewel that if a tyrant would give his crown
for an hour's slumber, it cannot be bought; yea, so greatly
are we indebted to this kinsman of death, that we owe the
better tributary half of our life to him; and there is good cause
why we should do so; for sleep is that golden chain that ties
health and our bodies together. Who complains of want, of
wounds, of cares, of great men's oppressions, of captivity, whilst
he sleepeth ? Beggars in their beds take as much pleasure as
kings. Can we therefore surfeit on this delicate ambrosia ? Can
we drink too much of that, whereof to taste too little tumbles us
into a churchyard; and to use it but indifferently throws us into
Bedlam ? No, no. Look upon Endymion, the moon's minion,
who slept threescore and fifteen years, and was not a hair the
worse for it. Can lying abed till noon then, being not the
threescore and fifteenth thousand part of his nap, be hurtful ?
THE PRAISE OF FORTUNE
From <Old Fortunatus>
FORTUNE smiles, cry holiday!
Dimples on her cheek do dwell.
Fortune frowns, cry well-a-day!
Her love is heaven, her hate is hell.
Since heaven and hell obey her power, —
Tremble when her eyes do lower.
Since heaven and hell her power obey,
When she smiles, cry holiday!
Holiday with joy we cry,
And bend and bend, and merrily
Sing hymns to Fortune's deity,
Sing hymns to Fortune's deity.
Chorus
Let us sing merrily, merrily, merrily,
With our songs let heaven resound.
Fortune's hands our heads have crowned.
Let us sing merrily, merrily, merrily.
4526
THOMAS DEKKER
CONTENT
From < Patient GrissiP
ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet Content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace,
Honest labor bears a lovely face.
Then hey nonny, nonny; hey nonny, nonny.
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O sweet Content!
Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears ?
O Punishment!
Then he that patiently Want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king.
O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content!
H
RUSTIC SONG
From <The Sun's Darling >
AYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
Wait on your Summer Queen!
Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,
Daffodils strew the green!
Sing, dance, and play,
'Tis holiday!
The sun does bravely shine
On our ears of corn.
Rich as a pearl
Comes every girl.
This is mine, this is mine, this is mine.
Let us die ere away they be borne.
Bow to our Sun, to our Queen, and that fair one
Come to behold our sports:
Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,
As those in princes' courts.
THOMAS DEKKER
These and we
With country glee,
Will teach the woods to resound,
And the hills with echoes hollow.
Skipping lambs
Their bleating dams
'Mongst kids shall trip it round;
For joy thus our wenches we follow.
Wind, jolly huntsmen, your neat bugles shrilly,
Hounds, make a lusty cry;
Spring up, you falconers, partridges freely,
Then let your brave hawks fly!
Horses amain,
Over ridge, over plain,
The dogs have the stag in chase:
'Tis a sport to content a king.
So ho ! ho ! through the skies
How the proud birds flies,
And sousing, kills with a grace!
Now the deer falls; hark! how they ring.
LULLABY
From < Patient GrissiP
GOLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you.
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
4527
4528
JEAN FRANCOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
(1793-1843)
BY FREDERIC LOLIEE
IHIS French lyrical poet and dramatist, born in Havre in 1793,
and brought up at Paris, was awarded a prize by the
Academie Franchise in 1811, elected a member of that
illustrious body July 7th, 1825, and died December nth, 1843. When
hardly twenty years of age he had already made his name famous by
dithyrambs, the form of which, imitated from the ancients, enabled
him to express in sufficiently poetic manner quite modern sentiments.
Possessed of brilliant and easy imagination, moderately enthusiastic,
and more sober than powerful, he hit upon
a lucky vein which promptly led him to
fame. He described the recent disasters of
his country in fine odes entitled ( Messeni-
ennes,* in allusion to the chants in which
the defeated Messenians deplored the hard-
ships inflicted on them by the Spartans.
Those political elegies were named — ( La
Bataille de Waterloo > (The Battle of Water-
loo) ; ( La Devastation du Musee > (The Spolia-
tion of the Museum) ; < Sur le Besoin de
S'unir apres le Depart des Etrangers* (On
the Necessity of Union after the Departure
of the Foreigners). They expressed emo-
tions agitating the mind of the country.
At the same time they appealed to the heart of the « liberals w of the
period by uttering their regrets for vanished power, their rancor
against the victorious party, their fears for threatened liberty. The
circumstances, the passions of the day, as also the awakening of
young and new talent, all concurred to favor Casimir Delavigne, who
almost from the very first attained high reputation. In 1819 the
publication of two more Messeniennes, on the life and death of
Joan of Arc, — inspired like the first with deep patriotic fervor, — was
received with enthusiasm.
Earlier even than the day of Lamartine and Victor Hugo, Casimir
Delavigne had the glory of stirring the heart of France. He had the
added merit of maintaining, after Beaumarchais and before Emile
CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
JEAN FRANgOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
Augier, the dignity of high comedy. Ingenious scenes of life, lively
and spirited details, grace and delicacy of style, save from oblivion
such pieces as (L'Ecole des Vieillards* (The School of Age), first per-
formed by the great artists Mademoiselle Mars and Talma; and (Don
Juan d'Autriche > (Don John of Austria), a prose comedy. Other
dramas of his — ( Marino Faliero,* (Les Vepres Siciliennes* (The Sicil-
ian Vespers), ( Louis XI.,* ( Les Enfants d'Edouard* (The Children of
Edward), and < La Fille du Cid> (The Daughter of the Cid) — are still
read with admiration, or acted to applauding spectators. A pure
disciple of Racine at first, Delavigne deftly managed to adopt some
innovations of the romanticist school. ( Marino Faliero > was the first
of his productions in which, relinquishing the so-called classic rules,
he endeavored, as a French critic fitly remarks, to introduce a kind of
eclecticism in stage literature; a bold attempt, tempered with prudent
reserve, in which he wisely combined the processes favored by the
new school with current tradition. That play is indeed a happy
mixture of drama and comedy. It contains familiar dialogues and
noble outbursts, which however do not violate the proprieties of
academic style.
Though he never displayed the genius of Lamartine or of Victor
Hugo, and though some of his pictures have faded since the appear-
ance of the dazzling productions of the great masters of romanticism,
Casimir Delavigne still ranks high in the literature of his country
and century, thanks to the lofty and steady qualities, to the tender
and generous feeling, to the noble independence, which were the
honorable characteristics of his talent and his individuality. His
works, first published in Paris in 1843 in six octavo volumes, went
through many subsequent editions.
THE CONFESSION OF LOUIS XI.
[On the point of dying, Louis XL clings desperately to life, and sum-
mons before him a holy monk, Francis de Paula, whom he implores to work
a miracle in his favor and prolong his life.]
Dramatis persona : — King Louis XL, and Saint Francis de Paula,
founder of the order of the Franciscan friars.
Louis — We are alone now.
Francis — What do you wish of me ?
Louis \who has knelt down] — At your knees see me trem-
bling with hope and fear.
VIII — 284
JEAN FRANgOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
Francis — What can I do for you ?
Louis — Everything, Father; you can do everything: you can
call the dead to life again.
Francis — I !
Louis — To the dead you say, (< Leave your graves ! w and they
leave them.
Francis — Who ? I ?
Louis — You bid our ailments to be cured.
Francis — I, my son?
Louis — And they are cured. When you command the skies
clear, the wind suddenly blows or likewise abates; the falling
thunderbolt at your command moves back to the clouds. Oh, I
implore you, who in the air can keep up the beneficent dew or
let it pour its welcome freshness on the withering plant, impart
fresh vigor to my old limbs. See me; I am dying; revive my
drooping energy; stretch ye out your arms to me, touch ye those
livid features of mine, and the spell of your hands will cause my
wrinkles to vanish.
Francis — What do you ask of me? You surprise me, my son.
Am I equal to God ? From your lips I first learn that I go
abroad rendering oracles, and with my hands working miracles.
Louis — At least ten years, father! grant me ten more years
to live, and upon you I shall lavish honors and presents. . . .
I shall found shrines to your name, in gold and jasper shall have
your relics set; but! — twenty years more life are too little a
reward for so much wealth and incense. I beseech you, work
a whole miracle! Do not cut so short the thread of my life.
A whole miracle! give me new life and prolong my days!
Francis — To do God's work is not in his creature's power.
What! when everything dies, you alone should last! King, such
is not God's will. I his feeble creature cannot alter for you
the course of nature. All that which grows must vanish, all
that which is born must perish, man himself and his works, the
tree and its fruit alike. All that produces does so only for a
time; 'tis the law here below, for eternity death alone shall fruc-
tify.
Louis — You wear out my patience. Do your duty, monk!
Work in my favor your marvelous power; for if you refuse, I
shall compel you. Do you forget that I am a king ? The holy
oil anointed my forehead. Oh, pardon me ! but it is your duty
to do more for kings, for crowned heads, than for those obscure
JEAN FRANCOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
and unfortunate wretches whom, but for your prayers, God in
heaven would never have remembered.
Francis — Kings and their subjects are equal in the eyes of
the Lord; he owes you his aid as to the rest of his children; be
more just to yourself, and claim for your soul that help for
which you beg.
Louis \cagcr ly\ — No, not so much at a time: let us now mind
the body; I shall think of the soul by-and-by.
Francis — It is your remorse, O King, 'tis that smarting wound
inflicted by your crimes, which slowly drags your body to final
ruin.
Louis — The priests absolved me.
Francis — Vain hope! The weight of your present alarms is
made up of thirty years of iniquitous life. Confess your shame,
disclose your sins, and let sincere repentance wash away your
defiled soul.
Louis — Should I get cured?
Francis — Perhaps.
Louis — Say yes, promise that I shall. I am going to confess
all.
Francis — To me ?
Louis — Such is my will. Listen.
Francis [seating himself whilst the King stands up ivitli clasped
hands\ — Speak then, sinner, who summon me to perform this
holy ministry.
Louis [after having recited mentally the Confiteor] — I cannot
and dare not refuse.
Francis — What are your sins ?
Louis — Through fear of the Dauphin, the late King died of
starvation.
Francis — A son shortened his own father's old age!
Louis — I was that Dauphin.
Francis — You were !
Louis — My father's weakness was ruining France. A favorite
ruled. France must have perished had not the King done so.
State interests are higher than —
Francis — Confess thy sins, thou wicked son; do not excuse
thy wrong-doings.
Louis — I had a brother.
Francis — What of him?
Louis — Who died . . . poisoned.
JEAN FRANQOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
Francis — Were you instrumental in his death ?
Louis — They suspected me.
Francis — God Almighty!
Louis — If those who said so fell in my power! . . .
Francis — Is it true?
Louis — His ghost rising from the grave can alone with impu-
nity accuse me of his death.
Francis — So you were guilty of it?
Louis — The traitor deserved it!
Francis [rising] — You would escape your just punishment!
Tremble ! I was your brother, I am now your judge. Crushed
under your sin, bend low your head. Return to nothingness,
empty Majesty! I no longer see the King, I hear the criminal:
to your knees, fratricide!
Louis [falling on his knees} — I shudder.
Francis — Repent !
Louis [crawling to the monk and catching hold of his gar-
ments}— I own my fault, have pity on me! I beat my breast
and repent another crime. I do not excuse it.
Francis [resuming his seat] — Is this not all ?
Louis — Nemours! . . . He was a conspirator. But his
death . . . His crime was proved. But under his scaffold
his children's tears . . . Thrice against his lord he had
taken up arms. His life-blood spattered them. Yet his death
was but just.
Francis — Cruel, cruel King!
Louis — Just, but severe; I confess it: I punished . . . but
no, I have committed crimes. In mid-air the fatal knot has
strangled my victims; in murderous pits they have been stabbed
with steel; the waters have put an end to them, the earth has
acted as their jailer. Prisoners buried beneath these towers groan
forgotten in their depths.
Francis — Oh! since there are wrongs which you can still
repair, come !
Louis — Where to ?
Francis — Let us set free those prisoners.
Louis — Statecraft forbids.
Francis [kneeling before the King] — Charity orders: come, and
save your soul.
Louis — And risk my crown! As a king, I cannot.
Francis — As a Christian, you must.
JEAN FRANgOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
Louis — I have repented. Let that suffice.
Francis [rising] — That avails nothing.
Louis — Have I not confessed my sins?
Francis — They are not condoned while you persist in them.
Louis — The Church has indulgences which a king can pay
for.
Francis — God's pardon is not to be bought: we must de-
serve it.
Louis [in despair] — I claim it by right of my anguish!
0 Father, if you knew my sufferings, you would shed tears of
pity! The intolerable bodily pain I endure constitutes but half
my troubles and my least suffering. I desire the places where I
cannot be. Everywhere remorse pursues me; I avoid the living;
1 live among the dead. I spend dreadful days and nights more
terrible. The darkness assumes visible shapes; silence disturbs
me, and when I pray to my Savior I hear his voice say: "What
would you with me, accursed ? " When asleep, a demon sits on
my chest: I drive him away, and a naked sword stabs me furi-
ously; I rise aghast; human blood inundates my couch, and my
hand, seized by a hand cold as death, is plunged in that blood
and feels hideous moving de*bris.
Francis — Ah, wretched man!
Louis — You shudder. Such are my days and nights; my
sleep, my life. Yet, dying, I agonize to live, and fear to drink
the last drop of that bitter cup.
Francis — Come then. Forgive the wrongs others have done
you, and thus abate your own tortures. A deed of mercy will
buy you rest, and when you awake, some voice at least will
bless your name. Come. Do not tarry.
Louis — Wait ! Wait !
Francis — Will the Lord wait ?
Louis — To-morrow !
Francis — But to-morrow, to-night, now, perhaps, death awaits
you.
Louis — I am well protected.
Francis — The unloved are ill protected. \Tries to drag the
King along. ] Come ! Come !
Louis {pushing him aside~] — Give me time, time to make up
my mind.
Francis — I leave you, murderer. I cannot forgive your
crimes.
JEAN FRANQOIS CASIMIR DELAVIGNE
Louis [terrified] — What! do you condemn me?
Francis — God may forgive all! When he still hesitates, how
could I condemn? Take advantage of the delay he grants you;
weep, pray, obtain from his mercy the softening of your heart
towards those unfortunates. Forgive, and let the light of day
shine for them once more. When you seized the attribute of
Divine vengeance they denounced your name from the depth of
their jails in their bitter anguish, and their shrieks and moans
drowned your prayers. Now end those sufferings, and God
shall hear your prayers.
Translated for (A Library of the World's Best Literature.)
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4535
DEMOSTHENES
(384-322 B. C.)
BY ROBERT SHARP
IHE lot of Demosthenes, the great Athenian orator, was cast
in evil times. The glorious days of his country's brilliant
political pre-eminence among Grecian States, and of her
still more brilliant pre-eminence as a leader and torch-bearer to the
world in its progress towards enlightenment and freedom, were well-
nigh over. In arms she had been crushed by the brute force of
Sparta. But this was not her deepest humiliation; she had indeed
risen again to great power, under the leadership of generals and
statesmen in whom something of the old-time Athenian spirit still
persisted; but the duration of that power had been brief. The deep-
est humiliation of a State is not in the loss of military prestige or
of material resources, but in the degeneracy of its citizens, in the
overthrow and scorn of high ideals; and so it was in Athens at the
time of Demosthenes's political activity.
The Athenians had become a pampered, ease-loving people. They
still cherished a cheap admiration for the great achievements of their
fathers. Stirring appeals to the glories of Marathon and Salamis
would arouse them to — pass patriotic resolutions. Any suggestion of
self-sacrifice, of service on the fleet or in the field, was dangerous.
A law made it a capital offense to propose to use, even in meeting
any great emergency, the fund set aside to supply the folk with
amusements. They preferred to hire mercenaries to undergo their
hardships and to fight their battles; but they were not willing to pay
their hirelings. The commander had to find pay for his soldiers in
the booty taken from their enemies; or failing that, by plundering
their friends. It must be admitted, however, that the patriots at
home were always ready and most willing to try, to convict, and to
punish the commanders upon any charge of misdemeanor in office.
There were not wanting men of integrity and true patriotism, and
of great ability, as Isocrates and Phocion, who accepted as inevitable
the decline of the power of Athens, and advocated a policy of passive
non-interference in foreign affairs, unless it were to take part in a
united effort against Persia. But the mass of the people, instead of
offering their own means and their bodies to the service of their
country, deemed it rather the part of the State to supply their needs
4536
DEMOSTHENES
and their amusements. They considered that they had performed, to
the full, their duty as citizens when they had taken part in the noisy
debates of the Assembly, or had sat as paid jurymen in the never-
ending succession of court procedures of this most litigious of peo-
ples. Among men even in their better days not callous to the
allurements of bribes judiciously administered, it was a logical
sequence that corruption should now pervade all classes and condi-
tions.
Literature and art, too, shared the general decadence, as it ever
must be, since they always respond to the dominant ideals of a time
and a people. To this general statement the exception must be
noted that philosophy, as represented by Plato and Aristotle, and
oratory, as represented by a long succession of Attic orators, had
developed into higher and better forms. The history of human
experience has shown that philosophy often becomes more subtle and
more profound in times when men fall away from their ancient high
standards, and become shaken in their old beliefs. So oratory attains
its perfect flower in periods of the greatest stress and danger, whether
from foreign foes or from internal discord. Both these forms of
utterance of the active human intellect show, in their highest attain-
ment, the realization of imminent emergency and the effort to point
out a way of betterment and safety.
Not only the condition of affairs at home was full of portent of
coming disaster. The course of events in other parts of Greece and
in the barbarian kingdom of Macedon seemed all to be converging to-
one inevitable result, — the extinction of Hellenic freedom. When a
nation or a race becomes unfit to possess longer the most precious of
heritages, a free and honorable place among nations, then the time
and the occasion and the man will not be long wanting to co-operate
with the internal subversive force in consummating the final catas-
trophe. <( If Philip should die," said Demosthenes, (<the Athenians-
would quickly make themselves another Philip. M
Throughout Greece, mutual jealousy and hatred among the States,
each too weak to cope with a strong foreign foe, prevented such
united action as might have made the country secure from any bar-
barian power; and that at a time when it was threatened by an
enemy far more formidable than had been Xerxes with all his mill-
ions.
The Greeks at first entirely underrated the danger from Philip and
the Macedonians. They had, up to this time, despised these barbari-
ans. Demosthenes, in the third Philippic, reproaches his countrymen
with enduring insult and outrage from a vile barbarian out of Mace-
don, whence formerly not even a respectable slave could be obtained.
It is indeed doubtful whether the world has ever seen a man, placed
DEMOSTHENES
4537
in a position of great power, more capable of seizing every oppor-
tunity and of using every agency, fair or foul, for accomplishing his
ambitious purposes, than was Philip of Macedon. The Greeks were
most unfortunate in their enemy.
Philip understood the Greek people thoroughly. He had received
his early training among them while a hostage at Thebes. He found
in their petty feuds, in their indolence and corruptibility, his oppor-
tunity to carry into effect his matured plans of conquest. His energy
never slept; his influence was ever present. When he was far away,
extending his boundaries among the barbarians, his money was still
active in Athens and elsewhere. His agents, often among the ablest
men in a community, were busy using every cunning means at the
command of the wonderful Greek ingenuity to conceal the danger or
to reconcile the fickle people to a change that promised fine rewards
for the sale of their liberty. Then he began to trim off one by one
the outlying colonies and dependencies of the Greek States. His next
step was to be the obtaining of a foothold in Greece proper.
The chief obstacle to Philip's progress was Athens, degenerate as
she was, and his chief opponent in Athens was Demosthenes. This
Philip understood very well; but he treated both the city and the
great statesman always with a remarkable leniency. More than once
Athens, inflamed by Demosthenes, flashed into her old-time energy
and activity, and stayed the Macedonian's course; as when, in his
first bold march towards the heart of Greece, he found himself con-
fronted at Thermopylae by Athenian troops; and again when prompt
succor from Athens saved Byzantium for the time. But the emer-
gency once past, the ardor of the Athenians died down as quickly as
it had flamed up.
The Social War (357-355 B. C.) left Athens stripped almost bare
of allies, and was practically a victory for Philip. The Sacred War
(357-346 B. C.) between Thebes and Phocis, turning upon an affront
offered to the Delphian god, gave Philip the eagerly sought-for
opportunity of interfering in the internal affairs of Greece. He
became the successful champion of the god, and received as his
reward a place in the great Amphictyonic Council. He thus secured
recognition of his claims to being a Greek, since none but Greeks
might sit in this council. He had, moreover, in crushing the Phocians,
destroyed a formidable power of resistance to his plans.
Such were the times and such the conditions in which Demos-
thenes entered upon his strenuous public life. He was born most
probably in 384 B. C., though some authorities give preference to 382
B. C. as the year of his birth. He was the son of Demosthenes and
Cleobule. His father was a respectable and wealthy Athenian citizen,
a manufacturer of cutlery and upholstering. His mother was the
453»
DEMOSTHENES
daughter of Gylon, an Athenian citizen resident in the region of the
Crimea.
Misfortune fell early upon him. At the age of seven he was left
fatherless. His large patrimony fell into the hands of unprincipled
guardians. Nature seems almost maliciously to have concentrated in
him a number of blemishes, any one of which might have checked
effectually the ambition of any ordinary man to excel in the pro-
fession Demosthenes chose for himself. He was not strong of body,
his features were sinister, and his manner was ungraceful, — a griev-
ous drawback among a people with whom physical beauty might
cover a multitude of sins, and physical imperfections were a reproach.
He seems to have enjoyed the best facilities in his youth for
training his mind, though he complains that his teachers were not
paid by his guardians; and he is reported to have developed a fond-
ness for oratory at an early age. In his maturing years, he was
taught by the great lawyer, Isasus; and must often have listened to
the orator and rhetorician Isocrates, if he was not indeed actually
instructed by him. When once he had determined to make himself
an orator, he set himself to work with immense energy to overcome
the natural disadvantages that stood in the way of his success. By
hard training he strengthened his weak voice and lungs ; it is related
that he cured himself of a painful habit of stammering; and he sub-
jected himself to the most vigorous course of study preparatory to his
profession, cutting himself off from all social enjoyments.
His success as an orator, however, was not immediate. He tasted
all the bitterness of failure on more than one occasion ; but after
temporary discouragement he redoubled his efforts to correct the
faults that were made so distressingly plain to him by the unsparing
but salutary criticism of his audience. Without doubt, these conflicts
and rebuffs of his earlier years served to strengthen and deepen the
moral character of Demosthenes, as well as to improve his art. They
contributed to form a man capable of spending his whole life in un-
flagging devotion to a high purpose, and that in the face of the
greatest difficulties and dangers. The dominant purpose of his life
was the preservation ,of the freedom of the Greek States from the
control of any foreign power, and the maintenance of the pre-eminent
position of Athens among these States. In this combination of a
splendid intellect, an indomitable will, and a great purpose, we find
the true basis of Demosthenes's greatness.
When at the age of eighteen he came into the wreck of his patri-
mony, he at once began suit against Aphobos, one of his unfaithful
guardians. He conducted his case himself. So well did he plead his
cause that he received a verdict for a large amount. He seems, how-
ever, owing to the trickery of his opponent, never to have recovered
DEMOSTHENES
the money. He became now a professional writer of speeches for
clients in private suits of every kind, sometimes appearing in court
himself as advocate.
In 355-354 B. C. he entered upon his career as public orator and
statesman. He had now found his field of action, and till the end of
his eventful life he was a most prominent figure in the great issues
that concerned the welfare of Athens and of Greece. He was long
unquestionably the leading man among the Athenians. By splendid
ability as orator and statesman he was repeatedly able to thwart the
plans of the traitors in the pay of Philip, even though they were led
by the adept and eloquent ^schines. His influence was powerful in
the Peloponnesus, and he succeeded, in 338 B. C., in even uniting the
bitter hereditary enemies Thebes and Athens for one final, desperate,
but unsuccessful struggle against the Macedonian power.
Demosthenes soon awoke to the danger threatening his coun-
try from the barbarian kingdom in the north, though not even he
understood at first how grave was the danger. The series of great
speeches relating to Philip — the First Philippic; the three Olynthiacs,
* On the Peace, > < On the Embassy, > < On the Chersonese > ; the Second
and Third Philippics — ^show an increasing intensity and fire as the
danger became more and more imminent. These orations were deliv-
ered in the period 351-341 B. C.
When the cause of Greek freedom had been overwhelmed at Chae-
ronea, in the defeat of the allied Thebans and Athenians, Demos-
thenes, who had organized the unsuccessful resistance to Philip, still
retained the favor of his countrymen, fickle as they were. With the
exception of a short period of disfavor, he practically regulated the
policy of Athens till his death in 322 B. C.
In 336 B.C., on motion of Ctesiphon, a golden crown was voted
to Demosthenes by the Senate, in recognition of certain eminent
services and generous contributions from his own means to the needs
of the State. The decree was not confirmed by the Assembly, owing
to the opposition of ^Eschines, who gave notice that he would bring
suit against Ctesiphon for proposing an illegal measure. The case did
not come up for trial, however, till 330 B. C., six years later. (The
reason for this delay has never been clearly revealed.)
When Ctesiphon was summoned to appear, it was well understood
that it was not he but Demosthenes who was in reality to be tried,
and that the public and private record of the latter would be sub-
jected to the most rigorous scrutiny. On that memorable occasion,
people gathered from all over Greece to witness the oratorical duel
of the two champions — for Demosthenes was to reply to ^Eschines.
The speech of' ^Eschines was a brilliant and bitter arraignment of
Demosthenes; but so triumphant was the reply of the latter, that his
DEMOSTHENES
opponent, in mortification, went into voluntary exile. The speech of
Demosthenes ( On the Crown > has been generally accepted by ancients
and moderns as the supreme attainment in the oratory of antiquity.
It is evident that a man the never-swerving champion of a cause
which demanded the greatest sacrifice from a people devoted to self-
indulgence, the never-sleeping opponent of the hirelings of a foreign
enemy, and a persistent obstacle to men of honest conviction who
advocated a policy different from that which seemed best to him,
would of necessity bring upon himself bitter hostility and accusations
of the most serious character. And such was the case. Demosthenes
has been accused of many crimes and immoralities, some of them
so different in character as to be almost mutually exclusive. The
most serious charge is that of receiving a bribe from Harpalus, the
absconding treasurer of Alexander. He was tried upon this charge,
convicted, fined fifty talents, and thrown into prison. Thence he
escaped to go into a miserable exile.
How far and how seriously the character of Demosthenes is com-
promised by this and other attacks, it is not possible to decide to
the satisfaction of all. The results of the contest in regard to the
crown and the trial in the Harpalus matter were very different; but
the verdict of neither trial, even if they were not conflicting, could
be accepted as decisive. To me, the evidence, — weighed as we weigh
other evidence, with a just appreciation of the source of the charges,
the powerful testimony of the man's public life viewed as a whole,
and the lofty position maintained in the face of all odds among a
petulant people whom he would not flatter, but openly reproved for
their vices, — the evidence, I say, read in this light justifies the con-
clusion that the orator was a man of high moral character, and that
in the Harpalus affair he was the victim of the Macedonian faction
and of the misled patriotic party, co-operating for the time being.
When the tidings of the death of Alexander startled the world,
Demosthenes at once, though in exile, became intensely active in
arousing the patriots to strike one more blow for liberty. He was
recalled to Athens, restored to his high place, and became again the
chief influence in preparing for the last desperate resistance to the
Macedonians. When the cause of Greek freedom was finally lost,
Demosthenes went into exile; a price was set upon his head; and
when the Macedonian soldiers, led by a Greek traitor, were about to
lay hands upon him in the temple of Poseidon at Calauria, he sucked
the poison which he always carried ready in his pen, and died
rather than yield himself to the hated enemies of his country.
It remains only to say that the general consensus of ancient and
modern opinion is, that Demosthenes was the supreme figure in the
brilliant line of orators of antiquity. The chief general characteristics
DEMOSTHENES 454,
in all Demosthenes's public oratory are a sustained intensity and
a merciless directness. Swift as waves before a gale, every word
bears straight toward the final goal of his purpose. We are hardly
conscious even of the artistic taste which fits each phrase, and sen-
tence, and episode, to the larger occasion as well as to each other.
Indeed, we lose the rhetorician altogether in the devoted pleader,
the patriot, the self-forgetful chief of a noble but losing cause. His
careful study of the great orators who had preceded him undoubt-
edly taught him much; yet it was his own original and creative
power, lodged in a far-sighted, generous, and fearless nature, that
enabled him to leave to mankind a series of forensic masterpieces
hardly rivaled in any age or country.
THE THIRD PHILIPPIC
THE ARGUMENT
This speech was delivered about three months after the second Philippic,
while Philip was advancing into Thrace, and threatening both the Chersonese
and the Propontine coast. No new event had happened which called for any
special consultation ; but Demosthenes, alarmed by the formidable character of
Philip's enterprises and vast military preparations, felt the necessity of rous-
ing the Athenians to exertion.
MANY speeches, men of Athens, are made in almost every
Assembly about the hostilities of Philip, hostilities which
ever since the treaty of peace he has been committing' as
well against you as against the rest of the Greeks; and all, I
am sure, are ready to avow, though they forbear to do so, that
our counsels and our measures should be directed to his humili-
ation and chastisement: nevertheless, so low have our affairs
been brought by inattention and negligence, I fear it is harsh
truth to say, that if all the orators had sought to suggest and
you to pass resolutions for the utter mining of the common-
wealth, we could not methinks be worse off than we are. A
variety of circumstances may have brought us to this state; our
affairs have not declined from one or two causes only: but if
you rightly examine, you will find it chiefly owing to the orators,
who study to please you rather than advise for the best. Some
of whom, Athenians, seeking to maintain the basis of their own
4542
DEMOSTHENES
power and repute, have no forethought for the future, and
therefore think you also ought to have none; others, accusing
and calumniating practical statesmen, labor only to make Athens
punish Athens, and in such occupation to engage her that Philip
may have liberty to say and do what he pleases. Politics of this
kind are common here, but are the causes of your failures and
embarrassment. I beg, Athenians, that you will not resent my
plain speaking of the truth. Only consider. You hold liberty of
speech in other matters to be the general right of all residents
in Athens,, insomuch that you allow a measure of it even to
foreigners and slaves, and many servants may be seen among
you speaking their thoughts more freely than citizens in some
other States; and yet you have altogether banished it from your
councils. The result has been, that in the Assembly you give
yourselves airs and are flattered at hearing nothing but compli-
ments; in your measures and proceedings you are brought to the
utmost peril. If such be your disposition now, I must be silent:
if you will listen to good advice without flattery, I am ready to
speak. For though our affairs are in a deplorable condition,
though many sacrifices have been made, still if you will choose
to perform your duty it is possible to repair it all. A paradox,
and yet a truth, am I about to state. That which is the most
lamentable in the past is best for the future. How is this ?
Because you performed no part of your duty, great or small, and
therefore you fared ill: had you done all that became you, and
your situation were the same, there would be no hope of amend-
ment. Philip has indeed prevailed over your sloth and negli-
gence, but not over the country; you have not been worsted;
you have not even bestirred yourselves.
If now we were all agreed that Philip is at war with Athens
and infringing the peace, nothing would a speaker need to urge
or advise but the safest and easiest way of resisting him. But
since, at the very time when Philip is capturing cities and re-
taining divers of our dominions and assailing all people, there
are men so unreasonable as to listen to repeated declarations in
the Assembly that some of us are kindling war, one must be
cautious and set this matter right: for whoever moves or advises
a measure of defense is in danger of being accused afterwards
as author of the war.
I will first then examine and determine this point, whether it
be in our power to deliberate on peace or war. If the country
DEMOSTHENES
4543
may be at peace, if it depends on us (to begin with this), I say
we ought to maintain peace; and I call upon the affirmant to
move a resolution, to take some measure, and not to palter with
us. But if another, having arms in his hand and a large force
around him, amuses you with the name of peace while he car-
ries on the operations of war, what is left but to defend your-
selves ? You may profess to be at peace if you like, as he does ;
I quarrel not with that. But if any man supposes this to be a
peace, which will enable Philip to master all else and attack
you last, he is a madman, or he talks of a peace observed
towards him by you, not towards you by him. This it is that
Philip purchases by all his expenditure — the privilege of assail-
ing you without being assailed in turn.
If we really wait until he avows that he is at war with us,
we are the simplest of mortals: for he would not declare that,
though he marched even against Attica and Piraeus; at least if
we may judge from his conduct to others. For example, to the
Olynthians he declared when he was forty furlongs from their
city, that there was no alternative, but either they must quit
Olynthus or he Macedonia; though before that time, whenever
he was accused of such an intent, he took it ill and sent ambas-
sadors to justify himself. Again, he marched toward the Pho-
cians as if they were allies, and there were Phocian envoys who
accompanied his march, and many among you contended that his
advance would not benefit the Thebans. And he came into Thes-
saly of late as a friend and ally, yet he has taken possession of
Pherae; and lastly he told these wretched people of Oreus that
he had sent his soldiers out of good-will to visit them, as he
heard they were in trouble and dissension, and it was the part
of allies and true friends to lend assistance on such occasions.
People who would never have harmed him, though they might
have adopted measures of defense, he chose to deceive rather
than warn them of his attack; and think ye he would declare
war against you before he began it, and that while you are will-
ing to be deceived ? Impossible. He would be the silliest of
mankind, if whilst you the injured parties make no complaint
against him, but are accusing your own countrymen, he should
terminate your intestine strife and jealousies, warn you to turn
against him, and remove the pretexts of his hirelings for assert-
ing, to amuse you, that he makes no war upon Athens. O
heavens! would any rational being judge by words rather than
DEMOSTHENES
by actions, who is at peace with him and who at war ? Surely
none. Well then, tell me now: when he sends mercenaries into
Chersonesus, which the king and all the Greeks have acknowl-
edged to be yours, when he avows himself an auxiliary and
writes us word so, what are such proceedings? He says he is
not at war; I cannot however admit such conduct to be an
observance of the peace; far otherwise: I say, by his attempt on
Megara, by his setting up despotism in Eubcea, by his present
advance into Thrace, by his intrigues in Peloponnesus, by the
whole course of operations with his army, he has been breaking
the peace and making war upon you; unless indeed you will say
that those who establish batteries are not at war until they
apply them to the walls. But that you will not say: for whoever
contrives and prepares the means for my conquest, is at war
with me before he darts or draws the bow. What, if anything
should happen, is the risk you run ? The alienation of the Hel-
lespont, the subjection of Megara and Eubcea to your enemy, the
siding of the Peloponnesians with him. Then can I allow that
one who sets such an engine at work against Athens is at peace
with her ? Quite the contrary. From the day that he destroyed
the Phocians I date his commencement of hostilities. Defend
yourselves instantly, and I say you will be wise: delay it, and
you may wish in vain to do so hereafter. So much do I dissent
from your other counselors, men of Athens, that I deem any
discussion about Chersonesus or Byzantium out of place. Succor
them, — I advise that, — watch that no harm befalls them, send all
necessary supplies to your troops in that quarter; but let your
deliberations be for the safety of all Greece, as being in the
utmost peril. I must tell you why I am so alarmed at the state
of our affairs, that if my reasonings are correct, you may share
them, and make some provision at least for yourselves, however
disinclined to do so for others; but if in your judgment I talk
nonsense and absurdity, you may treat me as crazed, and not
listen to me either now or in future.
That Philip from a mean and humble origin has grown
mighty, that the Greeks are jealous and quarreling among them-
selves, that it was far more wonderful for him to rise from that
insignificance than it would now be, after so many acquisitions,
to conquer what is left: these, and similar matters which I might
dwell upon, I pass over. But I observe that all people, begin-
ning with you, have conceded to him a right which in former
DEMOSTHENES
4545
times has been the subject of contest in every Grecian war.
And what is this? The right of doing what he pleases, openly
fleecing and pillaging the Greeks, one after another, attacking
and enslaving their cities. You were at the head of the Greeks
for seventy-three years, the Lacedaemonians for twenty-nine; and
the Thebans had some powet in these latter times after the
battle of Leuctra. Yet neither you my countrymen, nor The-
bans, nor Lacedaemonians, were ever licensed by the Greeks to
act as you pleased; far otherwise. When you, or rather the
Athenians of that time, appeared to be dealing harshly with cer-
tain people, all the rest, even such as had no complaint against
Athens, thought proper to side with the injured parties in a war
against her. So, when the Lacedaemonians became masters and
succeeded to your empire, on their attempting to encroach and
make oppressive innovations a general war was declared against
them, even by such as had no cause of complaint. But where-
fore mention other people ? We ourselves and the Lacedaemo-
nians, although at the outset we could not allege any mutual
injuries, thought proper to make war for the injustice that we
saw done to our neighbors. Yet all the faults committed by the
Spartans in those thirty years, and by our ancestors in the
seventy, are less, men of Athens, than the wrongs which in
thirteen incomplete years that Philip has been uppermost he has
inflicted on the Greeks: nay, they are scarcely a fraction of these,
as may easily be shown in a few words. Olynthus and Methone
and Apollonia, and thirty-two cities on the borders of Thrace, I
pass over; all which he has so cruelly destroyed, that a visitor
could hardly tell if they were ever inhabited; and of the Pho-
cians, so considerable a people exterminated, I say nothing. But
what is the condition of Thessaly ? Has he not taken away her
constitutions and her cities, and established tetrarchies, to parcel
her out, not only by cities, but also by provinces, for subjection ?
Are not the Euboean States governed now by despots, and that
in an island near to Thebes and Athens? Does he not expressly
write in his epistles, (< I am at peace with those who are willing
to obey me ? " Nor does he write so and not act accordingly.
He is gone to the Hellespont; he marched formerly against
Ambracia; Elis, such an important city in Peloponnesus, he
possesses; he plotted lately to get Megara: neither Hellenic nor
barbaric land contains the man's ambition,
vin — 285
4546
DEMOSTHENES
And we the Greek community, seeing and hearing this, instead
of sending embassies to one another about it and expressing
indignation, are in such a miserable state, so intrenched in our
separate towns, that to this day we can attempt nothing that
interest or necessity requires; we cannot combine, or form any
association for succor and alliance; we look unconcernedly on
the man's growing power, each resolving, methinks, to enjoy the
interval that another is destroyed in, not caring or striving for
the salvation of Greece: for none can be ignorant that Philip,
like some course or attack of fever or other disease, is coming
even on those that yet seem very far removed. And you must
be sensible that whatever wrong the Greeks sustained from
Lacedaemonians or from us was at least inflicted by genuine
people of Greece; and it might be felt in the same manner as if
a lawful son, born to a large fortune, committed some fault or
error in the management of it; on that ground one would con-
sider him open to censure and reproach, yet it could not be said
that he was an alien, and not heir to the property which he so
dealt with. But if a slave or a spurious child wasted and spoiled
what he had no interest in — Heavens! how much more heinous
and hateful would all have pronounced it! And yet in regard to
Philip and his conduct they feel not this, although he is not
only no Greek and no way akin to Greeks, but not even a bar-
barian of a place honorable to mention; in fact, a vile fellow of
Macedon, from which a respectable slave could not be purchased
formerly.
What is wanting to make his insolence complete ? Besides
his destruction of Grecian cities, does he not hold the Pythian
games, the common festival of Greece, and if he comes not
himself, send his vassals to preside ? Is he not master of Ther-
mopylae and the passes into Greece, and holds he not those
places by garrisons and mercenaries ? Has he not thrust aside
Thessalians, ourselves, Dorians, the whole Amphictyonic body,
and got pre-audience of the oracle, to which even the Greeks
do not all pretend ? Yet the Greeks endure to see all this ;
methinks they view it as they would a hailstorm, each praying
that it may not fall on himself, none trying to prevent it. And
not only are the outrages which he does to Greece submitted to,
but even the private wrongs of every people: nothing can go
beyond this! Still under these indignities we are all slack and
DEMOSTHENES
4547
disheartened, and look towards our neighbors, distrusting one
another instead of the common enemy. And how think ye a
man who behaves so insolently to all, how will he act when he
gets each separately under his control ?
But what has caused the mischief? There must be some
cause, some good reason why the Greeks were so eager for
liberty then, and now are eager for servitude. There was some-
thing, men of Athens, something in the hearts of the multitude
then which there is not now, which overcame the wealth of
Persia and maintained the freedom of Greece, and quailed not
under any battle by land or sea; the loss whereof has ruined all,
and thrown the affairs of Greece into confusion. What was this ?
Nothing subtle or clever: simply that whoever took money from
the aspirants for power or the corrupters of Greece were uni-
versally detested; it was dreadful to be convicted of bribery;
the severest punishment was inflicted on the guilty, and there
was no intercession or pardon. The favorable moments for
enterprise which fortune frequently offers to the careless against
the vigilant, to them that will do nothing against those that
discharge all their duty, could not be bought from orators or
generals; no more could mutual concord, nor distrust of tyrants
and barbarians, nor anything of the kind. But now all such
principles have been sold as in open market, and those imported
in exchange, by which Greece is ruined and diseased. What are
they ? Envy where a man gets a bribe ; laughter if he confesses
it; mercy to the convicted; hatred of those that denounce the
crime; all the usual attendants upon corruption. For as to
ships and men and revenues and abundance of other materials,
all that may be reckoned as constituting national strength —
assuredly the Greeks of our day are more fully and perfectly
supplied with such advantages than Greeks of the olden time.
But they are all rendered useless, unavailable, unprofitable, by
the agency of these traffickers.
That such is the present state of things, you must see with-
out requiring my testimony; that it was different in former
times I will demonstrate, not by speaking my own words, but
by showing an inscription of your ancestors, which they graved
on a brazen column and deposited in the citadel, not for their
own benefit (they were right-minded enough without such records),
but for a memorial and example to instruct you how seriously
such conduct should be taken up. What says the inscription
4548
DEMOSTHENES
then ? It says : — (< Let Arthmius, son of Pythonax the Zelite, be
declared an outlaw and an enemy of the Athenian people and
their allies, him and his family. w Then the cause is written
why this was done: because he brought the Median gold into
Peloponnesus. That is the inscription. By the gods! only con-
sider and reflect among yourselves what must have been the
spirit, what the dignity of those Athenians who acted so. One
Arthmius a Zelite, subject of the king (for Zelea is in Asia),
because in his master's service he brought gold into Peloponne-
sus,— not to Athens, — they proclaimed an enemy of the Athenians
and their allies, him and his family, and outlawed. That is not
by the outlawry commonly spoken of; for what would a Zelite
care, to be excluded from Athenian franchises ? It means not
that; but in the statutes of homicide it is written, in cases where
a prosecution for murder is not allowed, but killing is sanctioned,
<( and let him die an outlaw, w says the legislator ; by which he
means that whoever kills such a person shall be unpolluted.
Therefore they considered that the preservation of all Greece
was their own concern (but for such opinion, they would not
have cared whether people in Peloponnesus were bought and cor-
rupted) ; and whomsoever they discovered taking bribes, they
chastised and punished so severely as to record their names in
brass. The natural result was, that Greece was formidable to
the barbarian, not the barbarian to Greece. 'Tis not so now:
since neither in this nor in other respects are your sentiments
the same. But what are they? You know yourselves; why
am I to upbraid you with everything ? The Greeks in general
are alike, and no better than you. Therefore I say, our present
affairs demand earnest attention and wholesome counsel.
There is a foolish saying of persons who wish to make us
easy, that Philip is not yet as powerful as the Lacedaemonians
were formerly, who ruled everywhere by land and sea, and had
the king for their ally, and nothing withstood them; yet Athens
resisted even that nation, and was not destroyed. I myself believe
that while everything has received great improvement, and the
present bears no resemblance to the past, nothing has been so
changed and improved as the practice of war. For anciently, as
I am informed, the Lacedaemonians and all Grecian people would
for four or five months during the season, only, invade and ravage
the land of their enemies with heavy-armed and national troops,
and return home again; and their ideas were so old-fashioned,
DEMOSTHENES 4549
or rather national, that they never purchased an advantage from
any; theirs was a legitimate and open warfare. But now you
doubtless perceive that the majority of disasters have been
effected by treason; nothing is done in fair field or combat.
You hear of Philip marching where he pleases, not because he
commands troops of the line, but because he has attached to him
a host of skirmishers, cavalry, archers, mercenaries, and the like.
When with these he falls upon a people in civil dissension, and
none (through mistrust) will march out to defend the country, he
applies engines and besieges them. I need not mention that he
makes no difference between winter and summer, that he has
no stated season of repose. You, knowing these things, reflect-
ing on them, must not let the war approach your territories, nor
get your necks broken, relying on the simplicity of the old war
with the- Lacedaemonians; but take the longest time beforehand
for defensive measures and preparations, see that he stirs not
from home, avoid any decisive engagement. For a war, if we
choose, men of Athens, to pursue a right course, we have many
natural advantages; such as the position of his kingdom, which
we may extensively plunder and ravage, and a thousand more;
but for a battle he is better trained than we are.
Nor is it enough to adopt these resolutions and oppose him
by warlike measures: you must on calculation and on principle
abhor his advocates here, remembering that it is impossible to
overcome your enemies abroad until you have chastised those
who are his ministers within the city. Which, by Jupiter and
all the gods, you cannot and will not do! You have arrived at
such a pitch of folly or madness or — I know not what to call it:
I am tempted often to think that some evil genius is driving
you to ruin — that for the sake of scandal or envy or jest or
any other cause, you command hirelings to speak (some of whom
would not deny themselves to be hirelings), and laugh when they
abuse people. And this, bad as it is, is not the worst; you have
allowed these persons more liberty for their political conduct than
your faithful counselors; and see what evils are caused by listen-
ing to such men with indulgence. I will mention facts that you
will all remember.
In Olynthus some of the statesmen were in Philip's interest,
doing everything for him; some were on the honest side, aiming
to preserve their fellow-citizens from slavery. Which party, now,
destroyed their country ? or which betrayed the cavalry, by whose
DEMOSTHENES
betrayal Olynthus fell ? The creatures of Philip ; they that, while
the city stood, slandered and calumniated the honest counselors
so effectually that the Olynthian people were induced to banish
Apollonides.
Nor is it there only, and nowhere else, that such practice has
been ruinous.
What can be the reason — perhaps you wonder — why the Olyn-
thians were more indulgent to Philip's advocates than to their
own ? The same which operates with you. They who advise
for the best cannot always gratify their audience, though they
would; for the safety of the State must be attended to; their
opponents by the very counsel which is agreeable advance Phil-
ip's interest. One party required contribution, the other said
there was no necessity; one were for war and mistrust, the other
for peace, until they were ensnared. And so on for everything
else ( not to dwell on particulars ) ; the one made speeches to
please for the moment, and gave no annoyance; the other offered
salutary counsel that was offensive. Many rights did the people
surrender at last, not from any such motive of indulgence or
ignorance, but submitting in the belief that all was lost. Which,
by Jupiter and Apollo, I fear will be your case, when on calcu-
lation you see that nothing can be done. I pray, men of Athens,
it may never come to this! Better die a thousand deaths than
render homage to Philip, or sacrifice any of your faithful coun-
selors. A fine recompense have the people of Oreus got, for
trusting themselves to Philip's friends and spurning Euphrseus!
Finely are the Eretrian commons rewarded, for having driven
away your ambassadors and yielded to Clitarchus ! Yes ; they are
slaves, exposed to the lash and the torture. Finely he spared
the Olynthians! It is folly and cowardice to cherish such hopes,
and while you take evil counsel and shirk every duty, and even
listen to those who plead for your enemies, to think you inhabit
a city of such magnitude that you cannot suffer any serious mis-
fortune. Yea, and it is disgraceful to exclaim on any occurrence,
when it is too late, (<Who would have expected it? However —
this or that should have been done, the other left undone. *
Many things could the Olynthians mention now, which if fore-
seen at the time would have prevented their destruction. Many
could the Orites mention, many the Phocians, and each of the
ruined States. But what would it avail them ? As long as the
vessel is safe, whether it be great or small, the mariner, the
DEMOSTHENES
pilot, every man in turn should exert himself, and prevent its
being overturned either by accident or design: but when the sea
hath rolled over it, their efforts are vain. And we likewise, O
Athenians, whilst we are safe, with a magnificent city, plentiful
resources, lofty reputation — what must we do ? Many of you, I
dare say, have been longing to ask. Well then, I will tell you;
I will move a resolution; pass it, if you please.
First, let us prepare for our own defense; provide ourselves,
I mean, with ships, money, and troops — for surely, though all
other people consented to be slaves, we at least ought to struggle
for freedom. When we have completed our own preparations
and made them apparent to the Greeks, then let us invite the
rest, and send our ambassadors everywhere with the intelligence,
to Peloponnesus, to Rhodes, to Chios, to the king, I say (for it
concerns his interests not to let Philip make universal conquest);
that, if you prevail, you may have partners of your dangers and
expenses in case of necessity, or at all events that you may
delay the operations. For since the war is against an indi-
vidual, not against the collected power of a State, even this may
be useful; as were the embassies last year to Peloponnesus, and
the remonstrances with which I and the other envoys went round
and arrested Philip's progress, so that he neither attacked Am-
bracia nor started for Peloponnesus. I say not, however, that
you should invite the rest without adopting measures to protect
yourselves; it would be folly, while you sacrifice your own inter-
est, to profess a regard for that of strangers, or to alarm others
about the future, whilst for the present you are unconcerned. I
advise not this; I bid you send supplies to the troops in Cher-
sonesus, and do what else they require; prepare yourselves and
make every effort first, then summon, gather, instruct the rest of
the Greeks. That is the duty of a State possessing a dignity
such as yours. If you imagine that Chalcidians or Megarians
will save Greece, while you run away from the contest, you
imagine wrong. Well for any of those people if they are safe
themselves! This work belongs to you; this privilege your ances-
tors bequeathed to you, the prize of many perilous exertions.
But if every one will sit seeking his pleasure, and studying to
be idle himself, never will he find others to do his work; and
more than this, I fear we shall be under the necessity of doing
all that we like not at one time. Were proxies to be had, our
inactivity would have found them long ago; but they are not.
4552 DEMOSTHENES
Such are the measures which I advise, which I propose; adopt
them, and even yet, I believe, our prosperity may be re-estab-
lished. If any man has better advice to offer, let him communi-
cate it openly. Whatever you determine, I pray to all the gods
for a happy result.
Translation of Charles R. Kennedy.
INVECTIVE AGAINST LICENSE OF SPEECH
THIS, you must be convinced, is a struggle for existence.
You cannot overcome your enemies abroad till you have
punished your enemies, his ministers, at home. They will
be the stumbling-blocks which prevent you reaching the others.
Why, do you suppose, Philip now insults you ? To other people
he at least renders services though he deceives them, while he
is already threatening you. Look for instance at the Thes-
salians. It was by many benefits conferred on them that he
seduced them into their present bondage. And then the Olyn-
thians, again, — how he cheated them, first giving them Potidaea
and several other places, is really beyond description. Now he
is enticing the Thebans by giving up to them Boeotia, and deliv-
ering them from a toilsome and vexatious war. Each of these
people did get a certain advantage; but some of them have suf-
fered what all the world knows; others will suffer whatever may
hereafter befall them. As for you, I recount not all that has
been taken from you, but how shamefully have you been treated
and despoiled! Why is it that Philip deals so differently with
you and with others ? Because yours is the only State in Greece
in which the privilege is allowed of speaking for the enemy, and
a citizen taking a bribe may safely address the Assembly, though
you have been robbed of your dominions. It was not safe at
Olynthus to be Philip's advocate, unless the Olynthian common-
alty had shared the advantage by possession of Potidaea. It was
not safe in Thessaly to be Philip's advocate, unless the people of
Thessaly had secured the advantage by Philip's expelling their
tyrants and restoring the Synod at Pylae. It was not safe in
Thebes, until he gave up Boeotia to them and destroyed the
Phocians. Yet at Athens, though Philip has deprived you of
Amphipolis and the territory round Cardia — nay, is making
Euboea a fortress as a check upon us, and is advancing to attack
Byzantium — it is safe to speak in Philip's behalf.
DEMOSTHENES
4553
JUSTIFICATION OF HIS PATRIOTIC POLICY
Do NOT go about repeating that Greece owes all her misfor-
tunes to one man. No, not to one man, but to many
abandoned men distributed throughout the different States,
of whom, by earth and heaven, yEschines is one. If the truth
were to be spoken without reserve, I should not hesitate to call
him the common scourge of all the men, the districts, and the
cities which have perished; for the sower of the seed is answer-
able for the crop. . . .
I affirm that if the future had been apparent to us all, — it
you, ^schines, had foretold it and proclaimed it at the top of
your voice instead of preserving total silence, — nevertheless the
State ought not to have deviated from her course, if she had
regard to her own honor, the traditions of the past, or the judg-
ment of posterity. As it is, she is looked upon as having failed
in her policy, — the common lot of all mankind when such is
the will of heaven; but if, claiming to be the foremost State of
Greece, she had deserted her post, she would have incurred the
reproach of betraying Greece to Philip. If we had abandoned
without a struggle all which our forefathers braved every dan-
ger to win, who would not have spurned you, ^Eschines? How
could we have looked in the face the strangers who flock to our
city, if things had reached their present pass, — Philip the chosen
leader and lord of all,— while others without our assistance had
borne the struggle to avert this consummation ? We ! who have
never in times past preferred inglorious safety to peril in the path
of honor. Is there a Greek or a barbarian who does not know
that Thebes at the height of her power, and Sparta before her —
ay, and even the King of Persia himself — would have been only
glad to compromise with us, and that we might have had what
we chose, and possessed our own in peace, had we been willing
to obey orders and to suffer another to put himself at the head
of Greece ? But it was not possible, — it was not a thing which
the Athenians of those days could do. It was against their
nature, their genius, and their traditions; and no human persua-
sion could induce them to side with a wrong-doer because he
was powerful, and to embrace subjection because it was safe.
No; to the last our country has fought and jeopardized herself
for honor and glory and pre-eminence. A noble choice, in har-
mony with your national character, as you testify by your respect
DEMOSTHENES
for the memories of your ancestors who have so acted. And
you are in the right; for who can withhold admiration from the
heroism of the men who shrank not from leaving their city and
their fatherland, and embarking in their war-ships, rather than
submit to foreign dictation ? Why, Themistocles, who counseled
this step, was elected general; and the man who counseled sub-
mission was stoned to death — and not he only, for his wife was
stoned by your wives, as he was by you. The Athenians of
those days went not in quest of an orator or a general who could
help them to prosperous slavery; but they scorned life itself, if it
were not the life of freedom. Each of them regarded himself as
the child not only of his father and of his mother, but of his
country; and what is the difference ? He who looks on himself
as merely the child of his parents, awaits death in the ordinary
course of nature; while he who looks on himself as the child
also of his country, will be ready to lay down his life rather
than see her enslaved.
Do I take credit to myself for having inspired you with
sentiments worthy of your ancestors? Such presumption would
expose me to the just rebuke of every man who hears me.
What I maintain is, that these very sentiments are your own;
that the spirit of Athens was the same before my time, — though
I do claim to have had a share in the application of these prin-
ciples to each successive crisis. ^schines, therefore, when he
impeaches our whole policy, and seeks to exasperate you against
me as the author of all your alarms and perils, in his anxiety
to deprive me of present credit is really laboring to rob you of
your everlasting renown. If by your vote against Ctesiphon you
condemn my policy, you will pronounce yourselves to have been
in the wrong, instead of having suffered what has befallen you
through the cruel injustice of fortune. But it cannot be; you
have not been in the wrong, men of Athens, in doing battle for
the freedom and salvation of all : I swear it by your forefathers,
who bore the battle's brunt at Marathon; by those who stood
in arms at Platasa; by those who fought the sea fight at Sala-
mis; by the heroes of Artemisium, and many more whose resting-
place in our national monuments attests that, that as our country
buried, so she honored, all alike — victors and vanquished. She
was right; for what brave men could do, all did, though a
higher power was master of their fate.
4555
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
(1785-1859)
BY GEORGE R. CARPENTER
QUINCEY'S popular reputation is largely due to his autobio-
graphical essays, — to his ( Confessions. * Whatever may be
the merits of his other writings, the general public, as in
the case of Rousseau, of Dante, of St. Augustine, and of many
another, has, with its instinctive and unquenchable desire for knowl-
edge of the inner life of men of great emotional and imaginative
power, singled out De Quincey's ( Confessions * as the most significant
of his works. There has arisen a popular legend of De Quincey,
making him (not unlike Dante, who had seen hell with his bodily
eyes) a man who had felt in his own person the infernal pangs and
pleasures consequent upon enormous and almost unique excesses in
the use of that Oriental drug which possesses for us all such a
romantic attraction. He became the <( English Opium-Eater w ; and
even the most recent and authoritative edition of his writings, that of
the late Professor Masson, did not hesitate in advertisements to avail
itself of a title so familiar and so sensational.
To a great degree, this feeling on the part of the public is natural
and proper. De Quincey's opium habit, begun in his youth under
circumstances that modern physicians have guessed to be justifiable,
and continued throughout the remainder of his life, — at first without
self-restraint, at last in what was for him moderation, — has rendered
him a striking and isolated figure in Western lands.
We have a right eagerly to ask: On this strongly marked tem-
perament, so delicately imaginative and so keenly logical, so recep-
tive and so retentive, a type alike of the philosopher and the poet,
the scholar and the musician — on such a contemplative genius, what
were the effects of so great and so constant indulgence in a drug
noted for its power of heightening and extending, for a season, the
whole range of the imaginative faculties ?
Justifiable as such feelings may be, however, they tend to wrong
De Quincey's memory and to limit our conceptions of his character
and genius. He was no vulgar opium drunkard; he was, to all
appearances, singularly free even from the petty vices to which
eaters of the drug are supposed to be peculiarly liable. To be sure,
he was not without his eccentricities. He was absent-mindedly care-
less in his attire, unusual in his hours of waking and sleeping, odd
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
in his habits of work, ludicrously ignorant of the value of money,
solitary, prone to 'Whims, by turns reticent and loquacious. But for
all his eccentricities, De Quincey — unlike Poe, for example — is not a
possible object for pity or patronage; they would be foolish who
could doubt his word or mistrust his motives. He was "queer," as
most great Englishmen of letters of his time were; but the more his
at first enigmatic character comes to light, through his own letters
and through the recollections of his friends, the more clearly do we
see him to have been a pure-minded and well-bred man, kind,
honest, generous, and gentle. His life was almost wholly passed
among books, — books in many languages, books of many kinds and
times. These he incessantly read and annotated. And the treasures
of this wide reading, stored in a retentive and imaginative mind,
form the basis of almost all his work that is not distinctly autobio-
graphical.
De Quincey's writings, as collected by himself (and more recently
by Professor Masson), fill fourteen good-sized volumes, and consist of
about two hundred and fifteen separate pieces, all of which were
contributed to various periodicals between 1813, when at the age of
thirty-eight he suddenly found himself and his family dependent for
support on his literary efforts, to his death in 1859. Books, sustained
efforts of construction, he did not except in a single instance, and
probably could not, produce ; his mind held rich stores of information
on many subjects, but his habit of thought was essentially non-con-
secutive and his method merely that of the brilliant talker, who
illumines delightfully many a subject, treating none, however, with
reserved power and thorough care. His attitude toward his work, it
is worth while to notice, was an admirable one. His task was often
that of a hack writer; his spirit never. His life was frugal and
modest in the extreme; and though writing brought him bread and
fame, he seems never, in any recorded instance, to have concerned
himself with its commercial value. He wrote from a full mind and
with genuine inspiration, and lived and died a man of letters from
pure love of letters and not of worldly gain.
As we have noticed, it is the autobiographical part of De Quincey's
writing — the Confessions* of one who could call every day for (<a
glass of laudanum negus, warm, and without sugar w — that has made
him famous, and which deserves first our critical attention. It con-
sists of four or five hundred pages of somewhat disconnected sketches,
including the ( Confessions of an English Opium-Eater > and ( Suspiria
de Profundis.' De Quincey himself speaks of them as (<a far higher
class of composition w than his philosophical or historical writings, —
declaring them to be, unlike the comparatively matter-of-fact memoirs
of Rousseau and St. Augustine, <( modes of impassioned prose, ranging
THOMAS DE yUINCEY
under no precedents that I am aware of in any literature." What
De Quincey attempted was to clothe in words scenes from the world
of dreams, — a lyric fashion, as it were, wholly in keeping with con-
temporary taste and aspiration, which under the penetrating influence
of romanticism were maintaining the poetical value and interest of
isolated and excited personal feeling.
Like Dante, whose (Vita Nuova* De Quincey 's Confessions*
greatly resemble in their essential characteristics of method, he had
lived from childhood in a world of dreams. Both felt keenly the
pleasures and sorrows of the outer world, but in both contemplative
imagination was so strong that the actual fact — the real Beatrice, if
you will — became as nothing to that same fact transmuted through
idealizing thought. De Quincey was early impressed by the remark-
able fashion in which dreams or reveries weave together the sepa-
rate strands of wakeful existence. Before he was two years old he
had, he says, aa remarkable dream of terrific grandeur about a favor-
ite nurse, which is interesting to myself for this reason, — that it
demonstrates my dreaming tendencies to have been constitutional,
and not dependent on laudanum. w At the same age he <( connected
a profound sense of pathos with the reappearance, very early in the
spring, of some crocuses. w These two incidents are a key to the
working of De Quincey's mind. Waking or sleeping, his intellect had
the rare power of using the facts of life as the composer might use
a song of the street, building on a wandering ballad a whole sym-
phony of transfigured sound, retaining skillfully, in the midst of the
new and majestic music, the winning qualities of the popular strain.
To such a boy, with an imaginative mind, an impassioned nature, and
a memory which retained and developed powerfully year by year
all associations involving the feelings of grandeur, magnificence, or
immensity, — to such a boy, life and experience were but the storing
up of material which the creative mind might weave into literature
that had the form of prose and the nature of poetry.
De Quincey shared Dante's rare capacity for retaining strong vis-
ual images, his rare power of weaving them into a new and won-
derful fabric. But De Quincey, though as learned and as acute as
Dante, had not Dante's religious and philosophical convictions. A
blind faith and scholastic reason were the foundations of the great
vision of the < Divine Comedy. > De Quincey had not the strong but
limited conception of the world on which to base his imagination, he
had not the high religious vision to nerve him to higher contempla-
tion, and his work can never serve in any way as a guide and
message to mankind. De Quincey's visions, however, have the merit
of not being forced. He did not resolve to see what faith and
reason bade him.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
While all controlled reasoning was suspended under the incantation
of opium, his quick mind, without conscious intent, without preju-
dice or purpose, assembled such mysterious and wonderful sights and
sounds as the naked soul might see and hear in the world of actual
experience. For De Quincey's range of action and association was
not as narrow as might seem. He had walked the streets of Lon-
don friendless and starving, saved from death by a dram given by
one even more wretched than he, only a few months after he had
talked with the king. De Quincey's latent images are therefore not
grotesque or mediaeval, not conditioned by any philosophical theory,
not of any Inferno or Paradise. The elements of his visions are
the simple elements of all our striking experiences : the faces of the
dead, the grieving child, the tired woman, the strange foreign face,
the tramp of horses' feet. And opium merely magnified these simple
elements, rendered them grand and beautiful without giving them
any forced connection or relative meaning. We recognize the traces
of our own transfigured experience, but we are relieved from the
necessity of accepting it as having an inner meaning. De Quincey's
singular hold on our affection seems, therefore, to be his rare quality
of presenting the unusual but typical dream or reverie as a beautiful
object of interest, without endeavoring to give it the character of an
allegory or a fable.
The greater part of De Quincey's writings however are historical,
critical, and philosophical in character rather than autobiographical ;
but these are now much neglected. We sometimes read a little of
* Joan of Arc,* and no one can read it without great admiration; the
( Flight of the Tartars* has even become a part of <( prescribed w lit-
erature in our American schools; but of other essays than these we
have as a rule only a dim impression or a faint memory. There are
obvious reasons why De Quincey's historical and philosophical writ-
ings, in an age which devotes itself so largely to similar pursuits, no
longer recommend themselves to the popular taste. His method is
too discursive and leisurely; his subjects as a rule too remote from
current interest; his line of thought too intricate. These failings,
from our point of view, are the more to be regretted because there
has never been an English essayist more entertaining or suggestive
than De Quincey. His works cover a very wide range of subject-
matter, — from the ( Knocking on the Gate in Macbeth > to the Cas-
uistry of Roman Meals > and the ( Toilet of a Hebrew Lady. * His
topics are always piquant. Like Poe, De Quincey loved puzzling
questions, the cryptograms, the tangled under sides of things, where
there are many and conflicting facts to sift and correlate, the points
that are now usually settled in foot-notes and by references to Ger-
man authorities. In dealing with such subjects he showed not only
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 4559
that he possessed the same keen logic which entertains us in Poe,
but that he was the master of great stores of learned information.
We are never wholly convinced, perhaps, of the eternal truth of his
conclusions, but we like to watch him arrive at them. They seem
fresh and strange, and we are dazzled by the constantly changing
material. Nothing can be more delightful than the constant influx of
new objects of thought, the unexpected incidents, the seemingly in-
expugnable logic that ends in paradox, the play of human interest in
a topic to which all living interest seems alien. There is scarcely a
page in all De Quincey's writings that taken by itself is actually dull.
In each, one receives a vivid impression of the same lithe and active
mind, examining with lively curiosity even a recondite subject; crack-
ing a joke here and dropping a tear there, and never intermitting
the smooth flow of acute but often irrelevant observation. The gen-
eration that habitually neglects De Quincey has lost little important
historical and philosophical information, perhaps, but it has certainly
deprived itself of a constant source of entertainment.
As a stylist De Quincey marked a new ideal in English; that
of impassioned prose, as he himself expresses it, — prose which delib-
erately exalts its subject-matter, as the opera does its. And it was
really as an opera that De Quincey conceived of the essay. It was
to have its recitatives, its mediocre passages, the well and firmly
handled parts of ordinary discourse. All comparatively unornamented
matter was, however, but preparative to the lyric outburst, — the
strophe and antistrophe of modulated song. In this conception of
style others had preceded him, — Milton notably, — but only half con-
sciously and not with sustained success. There could be no great
English prose until the eighteenth century had trimmed the tangled
periods of the seventeenth, and the romantic movement of the nine-
teenth added fire and enthusiasm to the clear but conventional style
of the eighteenth. Ruskin and Carlyle have both the same element
of bravura, as will be seen if one tries to analyze their best passages
as music. But in De Quincey this lyric arrangement is at once more
delicate and more obvious, as the reader may assure himself if he re-
read his favorite passages, noticing how many of them are in essence
exclamatory, or actually vocative, as it were. In this ideal of impas-
sioned prose De Quincey gave to the prose of the latter part of the
century its keynote. Macaulay is everywhere equally impassioned or
unimpassioned ; the smooth-flowing and useful canal, rather than the
picturesque river in which rapids follow the long reaches of even
water, and are in turn succeeded by them. To conceive of style as
music, — as symmetry, proportion, and measure, only secondarily de-
pendent on the clear exposition of the actual subject-matter, — that is
De Quincey's ideal, and there Pater and Stevenson have followed him.
4^6o THOMAS DE QUINCEY
De Quincey's fame has not gone far beyond the circle of those
who speak his native tongue. A recent French critic finds him
rough and rude, sinister even in his wit. In that circle however his
reputation has been high, though he has not been without stern
critics. Mr. Leslie Stephen insists that his logic is more apparent
than real; that his humor is spun out and trivial, his jests ill-timed
and ill-made. His claim that his ( Confessions > created a new genre
is futile; they confess nothing epoch-making, — no real crises of soul,
merely the adventures of a truant schoolboy, the recollections of
a drunkard. He was full of contemptuous and effeminate British
prejudices against agnosticism and Continental geniuses. (<And so,w
Mr. Stephen continues, <(in a life of seventy-three years De Quincey
read extensively and thought acutely by fits, ate an enormous quan-
tity of opium, wrote a few pages which revealed new capacities
in the language, and provided a good deal of respectable padding
for the magazines. M
Not a single one of the charges can be wholly denied ; on analysis
De Quincey proves guilty of all these offenses against ideal culture.
Rough jocoseness, diffusiveness, local prejudice, a life spent on de-
tails, a lack of philosophy, — these are faults, but they are British
faults, Anglo-Saxon faults. They scarcely limit affection or greatly
diminish respect. De Quincey was a sophist, a rhetorician, a brilliant
talker. There are men of that sort in every club, in every com-
munity. We forgive their eccentricity, their lack of fine humor, the
most rigid logic, or the highest learning. We do not attempt to reply
to them. It is enough if the stream of discourse flows gently on from
their lips. A rich and well-modulated vocabulary, finely turned
phrases, amusing quips and conceits of fancy, acute observations, a
rich store of recondite learning, — these charm and hold us. Such a
talker, such a writer, was De Quincey. Such was his task, — to amuse,
to interest, and at times to instruct us. One deeper note he struck
rarely, but always with the master's hand, — the vibrating note felt in
passages characteristic of immensity, solitude, grandeur; and it is to
that note that De Quincey owes the individuality of his style and his
fame.
There are few facts in De Quincey's long career that bear directly
on the criticism of his works. Like Ruskin, he was the son of a
well-to-do and cultivated merchant, but the elder De Quincey unfor-
tunately died too early to be of any help in life to his impulsive and
unpractical boy, who quarreled with his guardians, ran away from
school, and neglected his routine duties at Oxford. His admiration
for Wordsworth and Coleridge led him to the Lake country, where he
married and settled down. The necessity of providing for his family
at last aroused him from his life of meditation and indulgence in
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
opium, and brought him into connection with the periodicals of the
day. After the death of his wife in 1840 he moved with his children
to the vicinity of Edinburgh, where in somewhat eccentric solitude
he spent the last twenty years of his uneventful life.
CHARLES LAMB
From < Biographical Essays >
IT SOUNDS paradoxical, but is not so in a bad sense, to say that
in every literature of large compass some authors will be
found to rest much of the interest which surrounds them on
their essential non -popularity. They are good for the very reason
that they are not in conformity to the current taste. They in-
terest because to the world they are not interesting. They attract
by means of their repulsion. Not as though it could separately
furnish a reason for loving a book, that the majority of men had
found it repulsive. Prima facie, it must suggest some presump-
tion against a book that it has tailed to gain public attention.
To have roused hostility indeed, to have kindled a feud against
its own principles or its temper, may happen to be a good sign.
That argues power. Hatred may be promising. The deepest
revolutions of mind sometimes begin in hatred. But simply to
have left a reader unimpressed is in itself a neutral result, from
which the inference is doubtful. Yet even that, even simple
failure to impress, may happen at times to be a result from posi-
tive powers in a writer, from special originalities such as rarely
reflect themselves in the mirror of the ordinary understanding.
It seems little to be perceived, how much the great Scriptural
idea of the worldly and the unworldly is found to emerge in lit-
erature as well as in life. In reality, the very same combinations
of moral qualities, infinitely varied, which compose the harsh
physiognomy of what we call worldliness in the living groups of
life, must unavoidably present themselves in books. A library
divides into sections of worldly and unworldly, even as a crowd
of men divides into that same majority and minority. The
world has an instinct for recognizing its own, and recoils
from certain qualities when exemplified in books, with the same
vni — 286
4562 THOMAS DE QUINCEY
disgust or defective sympathy as would have governed it in real
life. From qualities for instance of childlike simplicity, of shy
profundity, or of inspired self-communion, the world does and
must turn away its face towards grosser, bolder, more deter-
mined, or more intelligible expressions of character and intellect;
and not otherwise in literature, nor at all less in literature, than
it does in the realities of life.
Charles Lamb, if any ever was, is amongst the class here
contemplated; he, if any ever has, ranks amongst writers whose
works are destined to be forever unpopular, and yet forever
interesting; interesting moreover by means of those very quali-
ties which guarantee their non-popularity. The same qualities
which will be found forbidding to the worldly and the thought-
less, which will be found insipid to many even amongst robust
and powerful minds, are exactly those which will continue to
command a select audience in every generation. The prose
essays, under the signature of (< Elia, w form the most delightful
section amongst Lamb's works. They traverse a peculiar field of
observation, sequestered from general interest; and they are
composed in a spirit too delicate and unobtrusive to catch the
ear of the noisy crowd, clamoring for strong sensations. But
this retiring delicacy itself, the pensiveness checkered by gleams
of the fanciful, and the humor that is touched with cross-lights
of pathos, together with the picturesque quaintness of the objects
casually described, whether men, or things, or usages; and in
the rear of all this, the constant recurrence to ancient recollec-
tions and to decaying forms of household life, as things retiring
before the tumult of new and revolutionary generations; — these
traits in combination communicate to the papers a grace and
strength of originality which nothing in any literature approaches,
whether for degree or kind of excellence, except the most felici-
tous papers of Addison, such as those on Sir Roger de Coverley,
and some others in the same vein of composition. They resem-
ble Addison's papers also in the diction, which is natural and
idiomatic even to carelessness. They are equally faithful to the
truth of nature; and in this only they differ remarkably — that
the sketches of Elia reflect the stamp and impress of the writer's
own character, whereas in all those of Addison the personal
peculiarities of the delineator (though known to the reader from
the beginning through the account of the club) are nearly qui-
escent. Now and then they are recalled into a momentary
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
notice, but they do not act, or at all modify his pictures of Sir
Roger or Will Wimble. They are slightly and amiably eccentric;
but the Spectator himself, in describing them, takes the station
of an ordinary observer.
Everywhere, indeed, in the writings of Lamb, and not merely
in his * Elia, ' the character of the writer co-operates in an under-
current to make the effect of the thing written. To understand
in the fullest sense either the gayety or the tenderness of a par-
ticular passage, you must have some insight into the peculiar
bias of the writer's mind, whether native and original, or im-
pressed gradually by the accidents of situation; whether simply
developed out of predispositions by the action of life, or violently
scorched into the constitution by some fierce fever of calamity.
There is in modern literature a whole class of writers, though
not a large one, standing within the same category; some marked
originality of character in the writer becomes a coefficient with
what he says to a common result; you must sympathize with this
personality in the author before you can appreciate the most sig-
nificant parts of his views. In most books the writer figures as
a mere abstraction, without sex or age or local station, whom the
reader banishes from his thoughts. What is written seems to
proceed from a blank intellect, not from a man clothed with
fleshly peculiarities and differences. These peculiarities and dif-
ferences neither do, nor (generally speaking) could intermingle
with the texture of the thoughts so as to modify their force or
their direction. In such books — and they form the vast majority
— there is nothing to be found or to be looked for beyond the
direct objective. (Sit venia verbo /) But in a small section of
books, the objective in the thought becomes confluent with the
subjective in the thinker — the two forces unite for a joint prod-
uct; and fully to enjoy the product, or fully to apprehend either
element, both must be known. It is singular and worth inquir-
ing into, for the reason that the Greek and Roman literature had
no such books. Timon of Athens, or Diogenes, one may con-
ceive qualified for this mode of authorship, had journalism existed
to rouse them in those days ; their <( articles }> would no doubt
have been fearfully caustic. But as they failed to produce any-
thing, and Lucian in an after age is scarcely characteristic enough
for the purpose, perhaps we may pronounce Rabelais and Mon-
taigne the earliest of writers in the class described. In the cen-
tury following theirs came Sir Thomas Browne, and immediately
4564 THOMAS DE QUINCE Y
after him La Fontaine. Then came Swift, Sterne, with others
less distinguished; in Germany, Hippel the friend of Kant, Har-
mann the obscure, and the greatest of the whole body — John
Paul Friedrich Richter. In him, from the strength and determi-
nateness of his nature as well as from the great extent of his
writing, the philosophy of this interaction between the author as
a human agency and his theme as an intellectual reagency might
best be studied. From him might be derived the largest number
of cases, illustrating boldly this absorption of the universal into
the concrete — of the pure intellect into the human nature of the
author. But nowhere could illustrations be found more interest-
ing— shy, delicate, evanescent — shy as lightning, delicate and
evanescent as the colored pencilings on a frosty night from the
Northern Lights, than in the better parts of Lamb.
To appreciate Lamb, therefore, it is requisite that his charac-
ter and temperament should be understood in their coyest and
most wayward features. A capital defect it would be if these
could not be gathered silently from Lamb's works themselves.
It would be a fatal mode of dependency upon an alien and sep-
arable accident if they needed an external commentary. But they
do not. The syllables lurk up and down the writings of Lamb,
which decipher his eccentric nature. His character lies there dis-
persed in anagram; and to any attentive reader the re-gathering
and restoration of the total word from its scattered parts is
inevitable without an effort. Still it is always a satisfaction in
knowing a result, to know also its why and how ; and in so far
as every character is likely to be modified by the particular
experience, sad or joyous, through which the life has traveled,
it is a good contribution towards the knowledge of that resulting
character as a whole to have a sketch of that particular experi-
ence. What trials did it impose ? What energies did it task ?
What temptations did it unfold ? These calls upon the moral
powers, which in music so stormy many a life is doomed to
hear, — how were they faced? The character in a capital degree
molds oftentimes the life, but the life always in a subordinate
degree molds the character. And the character being in this case
of Lamb so much of a key to the writings, it becomes important
that the life should be traced, however briefly, as a key to the
character.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 4565
DESPAIR
From < Confessions of an English Opium-Eater >
THEN suddenly would come a dream of far different character
— a tumultuous dream — commencing with a music such as
now I often heard in sleep, music of preparation and of
awakening suspense. The undulations of fast gathering tumults
were like the opening of the Coronation Anthem; and like that,
gave the feeling of a multitudinous movement, of infinite caval-
cades filing off, and the tread of innumerable armies. The
morning was come of a mighty day — a day of crisis and of
ultimate hope for human nature, then suffering mysterious
eclipse, and laboring in some dread extremity. Somewhere, but
I knew not where, — somehow, but I knew not how, — by some
beings, but I knew not by whom, — a battle, a strife, an agony,
was traveling through all its stages, — was evolving itself, like
the catastrophe of some mighty drama; with which my sympathy
was the more insupportable from deepening confusion as to its
local scene, its cause, its nature, and its undecipherable issue. I
(as is usual in dreams, where of necessity we make ourselves
central to every movement) had the power, and yet had not the
power, to decide it. I had the power, if I could raise myself to
will it; and yet again had not the power, for the weight of
twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the oppression of inexpiable
guilt. (< Deeper than ever plummet sounded, w I lay inactive.
Then like a chorus the passion deepened. Some greater interest
was at stake, some mightier cause than ever yet the sword had
pleaded or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms;
hurryings to and fro; trepidations of innumerable fugitives, I
knew not whether from the good cause or the bad; darkness and
lights; tempest and human faces; and at last, with the sense
that all was lost, female forms, and the features that were worth
all the world to me; and but a moment allowed — and clasped
hands, with heart-breaking partings, and then — everlasting fare-
wells! and with a sigh such as the caves of hell sighed when the
incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of Death, the sound
was reverberated — everlasting farewells! and again, and yet
again reverberated — everlasting farewells!
And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud, w I will sleep no
more ! *
4566 THOMAS DE QUINCEY
THE DEAD SISTER
From < Confessions of an English Opium-Eater >
ON THE day after my sister's death, whilst the sweet temple
of her brain was yet unviolated by human scrutiny, I
formed my own scheme for seeing her once more. Not
for the world would I have made this known, nor have suffered
a witness to accompany me. I had never heard of feelings that
take the name of (< sentimental, w nor dreamed of such a possibil-
ity. But grief even in a child hates the light, and shrinks from
human eyes. The house was large, there were two staircases;
and by one of these I knew that about noon, when all would be
quiet, I could steal up into her chamber. I imagine that it was
exactly high noon when I reached the chamber door; it was
locked, but the key was not taken away. Entering, I closed the
door so softly that although it opened upon a hall which as-
cended through all the stories, no echo ran along the silent
walls. Then turning around, I sought my sister's face. But the
bed had been moved, and the back was now turned. Nothing
met my eyes but one large window wide open, through which
the sun of midsummer at noonday was showering down torrents
of splendor. The weather was dry, the sky was cloudless, the
blue depths seemed the express types of infinity; and it waa not
possible for eye to behold or for heart to conceive any symbols
more pathetic of life and the glory of life.
Let me pause for one instant in approaching a remembrance
so affecting and revolutionary for my own mind, and one which
(if any earthly remembrance) will survive for me in the hour of
death, — to remind some readers, and to inform others, that in
the original ( Opium Confessions J I endeavored to explain the
reason why death, cczteris paribus, is more profoundly affecting
in summer than in other parts of the year; so far at least as it
is liable to any modification at all from accidents of scenery or
season. The reason, as I there suggested, lies in the antagonism
between the tropical redundancy of life in summer and the dark
sterilities of the grave. The summer we see, the grave we
haunt with our thoughts; the glory is around us, the darkness
is within us. And the two coming into collision, each exalts
the other into stronger relief. But in my case there was even
a subtler reason why the summer had this intense power of
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 4567
vivifying the spectacle or the thoughts of death. And recollect-
ing it, often I have been struck with the important truth, that
far more of our deepest thoughts and feelings pass to us through
perplexed combinations of concrete objects, pass to us as involutes
(if I may coin that word) in compound experiences incapable of
being disentangled, than ever reach us directly and in their own
abstract shapes. It had happened that amongst our nursery col-
lection of books was the Bible, illustrated with many pictures.
And in long dark evenings, as my three sisters with myself sate
by the firelight round the guard of our nursery, no book was
so much in request amongst us. It ruled us and swayed us as
mysteriously as music. One young nurse, whom we all loved,
before any candle was lighted would often strain her eye to read
it for us; and sometimes, according to her simple powers, would
endeavor to explain what we found obscure. We, the child-
ren, were all constitutionally touched with pensiveness; the fitful
gloom and sudden lambencies of the room by firelight suited our
evening state of feelings; and they suited also the divine revela-
tions of power and mysterious beauty which awed us. Above
all, the story of a just man — man and yet not man, real above
all things and yet shadowy above all things, who had suffered
the passion of death in Palestine — slept upon our minds like
early dawn upon the waters.
The nurse knew and explained to us the chief differences in
Oriental climates; and all these differences (as it happens) express
themselves in the great varieties of summer. The cloudless sun-
lights of Syria — those seemed to argue everlasting summer; the
disciples plucking the ears of corn — that must be summer; but
above all, the very name of Palm Sunday (a festival in the
English Church) troubled me like an anthem. (< Sunday!" what
was that? That was the day of peace which masked another
peace, deeper than the heart of man can comprehend. (< Palms ! J>
what were they? That was an equivocal word; palms in the
sense of trophies expiessed the pomps of life; palms as a product
of nature expressed the pomps of summer. Yet still, even this
explanation does not suffice; it was not merely by the peace and
by the summer, by the deep sound of rest below all rest, and of
ascending glory, that I had been haunted. It was also because
Jerusalem stood near to those deep images both in time and in
place. The great event of Jerusalem was at hand when Palm
Sunday came; and the scene of that Sunday was near in place to
4,568 THOMAS DE QUINCEY
Jerusalem. Yet what then was Jerusalem ? Did I fancy it to be
the omphalos (navel) of the earth ? That pretension had once
been made for Jerusalem, and once for Delphi; and both preten-
sions had become ridiculous as the figure of the planet became
known. Yes, but if not of the earth, for earth's tenant Jerusalem
was the omphalos of mortality. Yet how ? There on the con-
trary it was, as we infants understood, that mortality had been
trampled under foot. True; but for that very reason, there it
was that mortality had opened its very gloomiest crater. There
it was indeed that the human had risen on wings from the
grave; but for that reason, there also it was that the Divine had
been swallowed up by the abyss; the lesser star could not rise
before the greater would submit to eclipse. Summer therefore
had connected itself with death, not merely as a mode of antago-
nism, but also through intricate relations to Scriptural scenery
and events.
Out of this digression, which was almost necessary for the
purpose- of showing how inextricably my feelings and images of
death were entangled with those of summer, I return to the
bedchamber of my sister. From the gorgeous sunlight I turned
round to the corpse. There lay the sweet childish figure, there
the angel face; and as people usually fancy, it was said in the
house that no features had suffered any change. Had they not?
The forehead indeed, — the serene and noble forehead, — that
might be the same; but the frozen eyelids, the darkness that
seemed to steal from beneath them, the marble lips, the stiffen-
ing hands laid palm to palm as if repeating the supplications of
closing anguish, — could these be mistaken for life ? Had it been
so, wherefore did I not spring to those heavenly lips with tears
and never-ending kisses? But so it was not. I stood checked
for a moment; awe, not fear, fell upon me; and whilst I stood,
a solemn wind began to blow, — the most mournful that ear
ever heard. Mournful! that is saying nothing. It was a wind
that had swept the fields of mortality for a hundred centuries.
Many times since, upon a summer day, when the sun is about
the hottest, I have remarked the same wind arising and utter-
ing the same hollow, solemn, Memnonian, but saintly swell:
it is in this world the one sole audible symbol of eternity. And
three times in my life I have happened to hear the same sound
in the same circumstances; namely, when standing between an
open window and a dead body on a summer day.
THOMAS DE QU1NCEY 4569
Instantly, when my ear caught this vast ^Eolian intonation,
when my eye filled with the golden fullness of life, the pomps
and glory of the heavens outside, and, turning, when it settled
upon the frost which overspread my sister's face, instantly a
trance fell upon me. A vault seemed to open in the zenith of
the far blue sky a shaft which ran up forever. I in spirit rose,
as if on billows that also ran up the shaft forever, and the bil-
lows seemed to pursue the throne of God; but that also ran
before us and fled away continually. The flight and the pursuit
seemed to go on for ever and ever. Frost, gathering frost, some
Sarsar wind of death, seemed to repel me ; I slept — for how long
I cannot say; slowly I recovered my self-possession, and found
myself standing as before, close to my sister's bed.
O flight of the solitary child to the solitary God — flight from
the ruined corpse to the throne that could not be ruined! — how
rich wert thou in truth for after years! Rapture of grief that,
being too mighty for a child to sustain, foundest a happy oblivion
in a heaven-born dream, and within that sleep didst conceal a
dream; whose meaning, in after years, when slowly I deciphered,
suddenly there flashed upon me new light; and even by the grief
of a child, as I will show you, reader, hereafter, were confounded
the falsehoods of philosophers.
In the ( Opium Confessions ) I touched a little upon the extraor-
dinary power connected with opium (after long use) of ampli-
fying the dimensions of time. Space also it amplifies, by degrees
that are sometimes terrific. But time it is upon which the exalt-
ing and multiplying power of opium chiefly spends its operation.
Time becomes infinitely elastic, stretching out to such immeas-
urable and vanishing termini that it seems ridiculous to compute
the sense of it, on waking, by expressions commensurate to
human life. As in starry fields one computes by diameters of the
earth's orbit, or of Jupiter's, so in valuing the virtual time lived
during some dreams, the measurement by generations is ridicu-
lous— by millennia is ridiculous; by aeons, I should say, if aeons
were more determinate, would be also ridiculous. On this single
occasion, however, in my life, the very inverse phenomenon
occurred. But why speak of it in connection with opium ? Could
a child of six years old have been under that influence ? No, but
simply because it so exactly reversed the operation of opium.
Instead of a short interval expanding into a vast one, upon this
occasion a long one had contracted into a minute. I have reason
4570 THOMAS DE QUINCEY
to believe that a very long one had elapsed during this wander-
ing or suspension of my perfect mind. When I returned to my-
self, there was a foot (or I fancied so) on the stairs. I was
alarmed; for I believed that if anybody should detect me, means
would be taken to prevent my coming again. Hastily, therefore,
I kissed the lips that I should kiss no more, and slunk like a
guilty thing with stealthy steps from the room. Thus perished
the vision, loveliest amongst all the shows which earth has
revealed to me; thus mutilated was the parting which should
have lasted forever; thus tainted with fear was the farewell
sacred to love and grief, to perfect love and perfect grief.
O Ahasuerus, everlasting Jew ! fable or not a fable, thou, when
first starting on thy endless pilgrimage of woe, — thou, when first
flying through the gates of Jerusalem and vainly yearning to
leave the pursuing curse behind thee, — couldst not more cer-
tainly have read thy doom of sorrow in the misgivings of thy
troubled brain, than I when passing forever from my sister's
room. The worm was at my heart; and confining myself to that
state of life, I may say, the worm that could not die. For if
when standing upon the threshold of manhood, I had ceased to
feel its perpetual gnawings, that was because a vast expansion of
intellect, — it was because new hopes, new necessities, and the
frenzy of youthful blood, had translated me into a new creature.
Man is doubtless one by some subtle nexus that we cannot per^
ceive, extending from the new-born infant to the superannuated
dotard; but as regards many affections and passions incident to
his nature at different stages, he is not one: the unity of man in
this respect is coextensive only with the particular stage to which
the passion belongs. Some passions, as that of sexual love, are
celestial by one half of their origin, animal and earthly by the
other half. These will not survive their own appropriate stage.
But love which is altogether holy, like that between two children,
will revisit undoubtedly by glimpses the silence and the darkness
of old age; and I repeat my belief — that unless bodily torment
should forbid it, that final experience in my sister's bedroom, or
some other in which her innocence was concerned, will rise again
for me to illuminate the hour of death.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
LEV ANA AND OUR LADIES OF SORROW
From < Confessions of an English Opium-Eater*
OFTENTIMES at Oxford I saw Levana in my dreams. I knew
her by her Roman symbols. Who is Levana ? Reader,
that do not pretend to have leisure for very much scholar-
ship, you will not be angry with me for telling you. Levana
was the Roman goddess that performed for the new-born infant
the earliest office of ennobling kindness, — typical, by its mode, of
that grandeur which belongs to man everywhere, and of that
benignity in powers invisible which even in pagan worlds some-
times descends to sustain it. At the very moment of birth, just
as the infant tasted for the first time the atmosphere of our
troubled planet, it was laid on the ground. That might bear dif-
ferent interpretations. But immediately, lest so grand a creature
should grovel there for more than one instant, either the pater-
nal hand as proxy for the goddess Levana, or some near kins-
man as proxy for the father, raised it upright, bade it look erect
as the king of all this world, and presented its forehead to the
stars, saying perhaps in his heart, w Behold what is greater than
yourselves ! " This symbolic act represented the function of
Levana. And that mysterious lady, who never revealed her face
(except to me in dreams), but always acted by delegation, had
her name from the Latin verb (as still it is the Italian verb)
levare, to raise aloft.
This is the explanation of Levana. And hence it has arisen
that some people have understood by Levana the tutelary power
that controls the education of the nursery. She that would not
suffer at his birth even a prefigurative or mimic degradation for
her awful ward, far less could be supposed to suffer the real
degradation attaching to the non -development of his powers. She
therefore watches over human education.
Therefore it is that Levana often communes with the powers
that shake man's heart: therefore it is that she dotes upon grief.
<( These ladies," said I softly to myself, on seeing the ministers
with whom Levana was conversing, <( these are the Sorrows; and
they are three in number, as the Graces are three, who dress
man's life with beauty; the Parcce are three, who weave the
dark arras of man's life in their mysterious loom always with col-
ors sad in part, sometimes angry with tragic crimson and black;
4572 THOMAS DE QUINCEY
the Furies are three, who visit, with retributions called from the
other side of the grave, offenses that walk upon this; and once
even the Muses were but three, who fit the harp, the trumpet,
or the lute, to the great burdens of man's impassioned creations.
These are the Sorrows, all three of whom I know." The last
words I say now; but in Oxford I said, <( One of whom I
know, and the others too surely I shall know. w For already in
my fervent youth I saw (dimly relieved upon the dark back-
ground of my dreams) the imperfect lineaments of the awful
sisters. These sisters — by what name shall we call them ?
If I say simply <( The Sorrows, w there will be a chance of
mistaking the term; it might be understood of individual sor-
row,— separate cases of sorrow, — whereas I want a term express-
ing the mighty abstractions that incarnate themselves in all
individual sufferings of man's heart; and I wish to have these
abstractions presented as impersonations; that is, as clothed with
human attributes of life, and with functions pointing to flesh.
Let us call them therefore Our Ladies of Sorrozv.
The eldest of the three is named Mater Lachrymarum, Our
Lady of Tears. She it is that night and day raves and moans,
calling- for vanished faces. She stood in Rama, where a voice
was heard of lamentation, — Rachel weeping for her children,
and refusing to be comforted. She it was that stood in Bethle-
hem on the night when Herod's sword swept its nurseries of
Innocents, and the little feet were stiffened forever, which, heard
at times as they tottered along floors overhead, woke pulses of
love in household hearts that were not unmarked in heaven.
Her eyes are sweet and subtile, wild and sleepy, by turns;
oftentimes rising to the clouds, oftentimes challenging the heav-
ens. She wears a diadem round her head. And I knew by
childish memories that she could go abroad upon the winds,
when she heard that sobbing of litanies, or the thundering of
organs, and when she beheld the mustering of summer clouds.
This sister, the elder, it is that carries keys more than papal at
her girdle, which open every cottage and every palace. She, to
my knowledge, sate all last summer by the bedside of the blind
beggar, him that so often and so gladly I talked with; whose
pious daughter, eight years old, with the sunny countenance,
resisted the temptations of play and village mirth to travel all
day long on dusty roads with her afflicted father. For this did
God send her a great reward. In the springtime of the year,
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
and whilst yet her own spring was budding, he recalled her
to himself. But her blind father mourns forever over her; still
he dreams at midnight that the little guiding hand is locked
within his own; and still he wakens to a darkness that is now
within a second and a deeper darkness. This Mater Lachrymarunt
also has been sitting all this winter of 1844-5 within the bed-
chamber of the Czar, bringing before his eyes a daughter (not
less pious) that vanished to God not less suddenly, and left
behind her a darkness not less profound. By the power of her
keys it is that Our Lady of Tears glides, a ghostly intruder,
into the chambers of sleepless men, sleepless women, sleepless
children, from Ganges to the Nile, from Nile to Mississippi.
And her, because she is the first-born of her house, and has the
widest empire, let us honor with the title of <( Madonna. "
The second sister is called Mater Suspiriorum^ Our Lady of
Sighs. She never scales the clouds, nor walks abroad upon the
winds. She wears no diadem. And her eyes, if they were ever
seen, would be neither sweet nor subtile; no man could read
their story; they would be found filled with perishing dreams,
and with wrecks of forgotten delirium. But she raises not her
eyes; her head, on which sits a dilapidated turban, droops for-
ever, forever fastens on the dust. She weeps not. She groans
not. But she sighs inaudibly at intervals. Her sister Madonna
is oftentimes stormy and frantic, raging in the highest against
Heaven, and demanding back her darlings. But Our Lady of
Sighs never clamors, never defies, dreams not of rebellious aspira-
tions. She is humble to abjectness. Hers is the meekness that
belongs to the hopeless. Murmur she may, but it is in her sleep.
Whisper she may, but it is to herself in the twilight. Mutter
she does at times, but it is in solitary places that are desolate as
she is desolate, in ruined cities, and when the sun has gone down
to his rest. This sister is the visitor of the Pariah; of the Jew;
of the bondsman to the oar in the Mediterranean galleys; of the
English criminal in Norfolk Island, blotted out from the books
of remembrance in sweet far-off England; of the baffled penitent
reverting his eyes forever upon a solitary grave, which to him
seems the altar overthrown of some past and bloody sacrifice, on
which altar no oblations can now be availing, whether towards
pardon that he might implore, or towards reparation that he
might attempt. Every slave that at noonday looks up to the
tropical sun with timid reproach, as he points with one hand to
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
the earth, our general mother, but for him a stepmother, — as he
points with the other hand to the Bible, our general teacher, but
against him. sealed and sequestered; every woman sitting in
darkness, without love to shelter her head or hope to illumine her
solitude, because the heaven-born instincts kindling in her nature
germs of holy affections, which God implanted in her womanly
bosom, having been stifled by social necessities, now burn sul-
lenly to waste like sepulchral lamps among the ancients; every
nun defrauded of her unreturning May-time by wicked kinsmen,
whom God will judge; every captive in every dungeon; all that
are betrayed, and all that are rejected; outcasts by traditionary
law, and children of hereditary disgrace: — all these walk with
Our Lady of Sighs. She also carries a key; but she needs it
little. For her kingdom is chiefly amongst the tents of Shem,
and the houseless vagrant of every clime. Yet in the very high-
est ranks of man she finds chapels of her own; and even in
glorious England there are some that, to the world, carry their
heads as proudly as the reindeer, who yet secretly have received
her mark upon their foreheads.
But the third sister, who is also the youngest — ! Hush!
whisper whilst we talk of her! Her kingdom is not large, or
else no flesh should live; but within that kingdom all power is
hers. Her head, turreted like that of Cybele, rises almost be-
yond the reach of sight. She droops not; and her eyes rising
so high might be hidden by distance. But being what they are,
they cannot be hidden; through the treble veil of crape which
she wears, the fierce light of a blazing misery, that rests not for
matins or for vespers, for noon of day or noon of night, for
ebbing or for flowing tide, may be read from the very ground.
She is the defier of God. She also is the mother of lunacies,
and the suggestress of suicides. Deep lie the roots of her
power; but narrow is the nation that she rules. For she can
approach only those in whom a profound nature has been up-
heaved by central convulsions; in whom the heart trembles and
the brain rocks under conspiracies of tempest from without and
tempest from within. Madonna moves with uncertain steps, fast
or slow, but still with tragic grace. Our Lady of Sighs creeps
timidly and stealthily. But this youngest sister moves with incal-
culable motions, bounding, and with a tiger's leaps. She carries
no key; for though coming rarely amongst men, she storms all
doors at which she is permitted to enter at all. And her name is
Mater Tenebrarum, — Our Lady of Darkness.
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 4575
These were the Semnai Theai, or Sublime Goddesses, these
were the Eumenides, or Gracious Ladies (so called by antiquity
in shuddering propitiation) of my Oxford dreams. Madonna
spoke. She spoke by her mysterious hand. Touching my head,
she beckoned to our Lady of Sighs; and what she spoke, trans-
lated out of the signs which (except in dreams) no man reads,
was this : —
"Lo! here is he whom in childhood I dedicated to my altars.
This is he that once I made my darling. Him I led astray, him
I beguiled, and from heaven I stole away his young heart to
mine. Through me did he become idolatrous; and through me
it was, by languishing desires, that he worshiped the worm,
and prayed to the wormy grave. Holy was the grave to him;
lovely was its darkness; saintly its corruption. Him, this young
idolator, I have seasoned for thee, dear gentle Sister of Sighs!
Do thou take him now to thy heart, and season him for our
dreadful sister. And thou," — turning to the Mater Tenebrarum,
she said, — <( wicked sister, that temptest and hatest, do thou take
him from her. See that thy sceptre lie heavy on his head.
Suffer not woman and her tenderness to sit near him in his
darkness. Banish the frailties of hope, wither the relenting of
love, scorch the fountains of tears, curse him as only thou canst
curse. So shall he be accomplished in the furnace, so shall he
see the things that ought not to be seen, sights that are abom-
inable, and secrets that are unutterable. So shall he read elder
truths, sad truths, grand truths, fearful truths. So shall he rise
again before he dies. And so shall our commission be accom-
plished which from God we had, — to plague his heart until he
had unfolded the capacities of his spirit. w
SAVANNAH-LA-MAR
From < Confessions of an English Opium-Eater >
GOD smote Savannah-la-mar, and in one night by earthquake
removed her, with all her towers standing and population
sleeping, from the steadfast foundations of the shore to the
coral floors of ocean. And God said : — w Pompeii did I bury and
conceal from men through seventeen centuries; this city I will
bury, but not conceal. She shall be a monument to men of my
mysterious anger, set in azure light through generations to come;
THOMAS DE QUINCEY
for I will enshrine her in a crystal dome of my tropic seas. w
This city therefore, like a mighty galleon with all her apparel
mounted, streamers flying, and tackling perfect, seems floating
along the noiseless depths of ocean; and oftentimes in glassy
calms, through the translucid atmosphere of water that now
stretches like an air-woven awning above the silent encampment,
mariners from every clime look down into her courts and ter-
races, count her gates, and number the spires of her churches.
She is one ample cemetery, and has been for many a year; but
in the mighty calms that brood for weeks over tropic latitudes,
she fascinates the eye with a Fata Morgana revelation as of
human life still subsisting, in submarine asylums sacred from
the storms that torment our upper air.
Thither, lured by the loveliness of cerulean depths, by the
peace of human dwellings privileged from molestation, by the
gleam of marble altars sleeping in everlasting sanctity, often-
times in dreams did I and the Dark Interpreter cleave the
watery veil that divided us from her streets. We looked into
the belfries, where the pendulous bells were waiting in vain for
the summons which should awaken their marriage peals; together
we touched the mighty organ keys, that sang no jubilates for the
ear of Heaven, that sang no requiems for the ear of human
sorrow; together we searched the silent nurseries, where the
children were all asleep, and had been asleep through five gen-
erations. <( They are waiting for the heavenly dawn,w whispered
the Interpreter to himself: (< and when that comes, the bells and
the organs will utter a jubilate repeated by the echoes of Para-
dise.* Then turning to me he said: — (<This is sad, this is pit-
eous; but less would not have sufficed for the purpose of God.
Look here. Put into a Roman clepsydra one hundred drops of
water; let these run out as the sands in an hour-glass, every
drop measuring the hundredth part of a second, so that each
shall represent but the three-hundred-and-sixty-thousandth part of
an hour. Now count the drops as they race along; and when
the fiftieth of the hundred is passing, behold! forty-nine are not,
because already they have perished; and fifty are not, because
they are yet to come. You see therefore how narrow, how incal-
culably narrow, is the true and actual present. Of that time
which we call the present, hardly a hundredth part but belongs
either to a past which has fled, or to a future which is still on
the wing. It has perished, or it is not born. It was, or it is
THOMAS DE QUINCEY 4577
not. Yet even this approximation to the truth is infinitely false.
For again subdivide that solitary drop, which only was found to
represent the present, into a lower series of similar fractions, and
the actual present which you arrest measures now but the thirty-
six-millionth of an hour; and so by infinite declensions the true
and very present, in which only we live and enjoy, will vanish
into a mote of a mote, distinguishable only by a heavenly vision.
Therefore the present, which only man possesses, offers less
capacity for his footing than the slenderest film that ever spider
twisted from her womb. Therefore also even this incalculable
shadow from the narrowest pencil of moonlight is more transitory
than geometry can measure, or thought of angel can overtake.
The time which is, contracts into a mathematic point; and even
that point perishes a thousand times before we can utter its
birth. All is finite in the present; and even that finite is infi-
nite in its velocity of flight towards death. But in God there
is nothing finite; but in God there is nothing transitory; but
in God there can be nothing that tends to death. Therefore it
follows that for God there can be no present. The future is
the present of God, and to the future it is that he sacrifices the
human present. Therefore it is that he works by earthquake.
Therefore it is that he works by grief. Oh, deep is the plow-
ing of earthquake! Oh, deep M — (and his voice swelled like a
sanctus rising from the choir of a cathedral) — (<Oh, deep is the
plowing of grief! But oftentimes less would not suffice for the
agriculture of God. Upon a night of earthquake he builds a
thousand years of pleasant habitations for man. Upon the sorrow
of an infant he raises oftentimes from human intellects glorious
vintages that could not else have been. Less than these fierce
plowshares would not have stirred the stubborn soil. The one is
needed for earth, our planet, — for earth itself as the dwelling-
place of man; but the other is needed yet oftener for God's
mightiest instrument, — yes" (and he looked solemnly at myself),
(< is needed for the mysterious children of the earth ! "
vin— 287
45 78 THOMAS DE QUINCEY
THE BISHOP OF BEAUVAIS AND JOAN OF ARC
From ( Miscellaneous Essays >
BISHOP OF BEAUVAIS! thy victim died in fire upon a scaffold —
thou upon a down bed. But for the departing minutes of
life, both are oftentimes alike. At the farewell crisis, when
the gates of death are opening, and flesh is resting from its
struggles, oftentimes the tortured and torturer have the same
truce from carnal torment; both sink together into sleep; together
both, sometimes, kindle into dreams. When the mortal mists
were gathering fast upon you two, bishop and shepherd girl, —
when the pavilions of life were closing up their shadowy curtains
about you, — let us try, through the gigantic glooms, to decipher
the flying features of your separate visions.
The shepherd girl that had delivered France — she from her
dungeon, she from her baiting at the stake, she from her duel
with fire, as she entered her last dream saw Domre*my, saw the
fountain of Domremy, saw the pomp of forests in which her
childhood had wandered. That Easter festival which man had
denied to her languishing heart, that resurrection of springtime
which the darkness of dungeons had intercepted from her, hun-
gering after the glorious liberty of forests, were by God given
back into her hands, as jewels that had been stolen from her by
robbers. With those, perhaps (for the minutes of dreams can
stretch into ages), was given back to her by God the bliss of
childhood. By special privilege, for her might be created in this
farewell dream, a second childhood, innocent as the first; but
not, like that, sad with the gloom of a fearful mission in the
rear. The mission had now been fulfilled. The storm was
weathered, the skirts even of that mighty storm were drawing
off. The blood that she was to reckon for had been exacted; the
tears that she was to shed in secret had been paid to the last.
The hatred to herself in all eyes had been faced steadily, had
been suffered, had been survived.
Bishop of Beauvais! because the guilt-burdened man is in
dreams haunted and waylaid by the most frightful of his crimes;
and because upon that fluctuating mirror, rising from the fens
of death, most of all are reflected the sweet countenances which
the man has laid in ruins; therefore I know, bishop, that you
also, entering your final dream, saw Domremy. That fountain
of which the witnesses spoke so much, showed itself to your
eyes in pure morning dews; but neither dews nor the holy
THOMAS DE QUINCE Y
dawn could cleanse away the bright spots of innocent blood upon
its surface. By the fountain, bishop, you saw a woman seated,
that hid her face. But as you draw near, the woman raises her
wasted features. Would Domre'my know them again for the
features of her child? Ah, but you know them, bishop, well!
Oh mercy! what a groan was that which the servants, waiting
outside the bishop's dream at his bedside, heard from his labor-
ing heart, as at this moment he turned away from the fountain
and the woman, seeking rest in the forests afar off. Yet not so
to escape the woman, whom once again he must behold before
he dies. In the forests to which he prays for pity, will he find
a respite ? What a tumult, what a gathering of feet is there !
In glades where only wild deer should run, armies and nations
are assembling; towering in the fluctuating crowd are phantoms
that belong to departed hours. There is the great English
Prince, Regent of France. There is my lord of Winchester, the
princely cardinal that died and made no sign. There is the
Bishop of Beauvais, clinging to the shelter of thickets. What
building is that which hands so rapid are raising? Is it a mar-
tyr's scaffold ? Will they burn the child of Domre'my a second
time ? No ; it is a tribunal that rises to the clouds ; and two
nations stand around it, waiting for a trial. Shall my Lord of
Beauvais sit upon the judgment seat, and again number the
hours for the innocent ? Ah ! no ; he is the prisoner at the bar.
Already all is waiting; the mighty audience is gathered, the
Court are hurrying to their seats, the witnesses are arrayed, the
trumpets are sounding, the judge is taking his place. Oh! but
this is sudden. My lord, have you no counsel? — "Counsel I have
none; in heaven above, or on earth beneath, counselor there is
none now that would take a brief from me; all are silent.* Is
it indeed come to this ? Alas ! the time is short, the tumult is
wondrous, the crowd stretches away into infinity; but yet I will
search in it for somebody to take your brief: I know of some-
body that will be your counsel. Who is this that cometh from
Domre'my ? Who is she in bloody coronation robes from Rheims ?
Who is she that cometh with blackened flesh from walking the
furnaces of Rouen ? This is she, the shepherd girl, counselor
that had none for herself, whom I choose, bishop, for yours.
She it is, I engage, that shall take my lord's brief. She it is,
bishop, that would plead for you: yes, bishop, SHE — when heaven
and earth are silent.
458°
PAUL DEROULEDE
(1846-)
[AUL DEROULEDE received his education in Paris, where he was
born. In accordance with the wishes of his friends, he was
educated for the law; but before even applying for admis-
sion to the bar he yielded to the poetic instinct that had been strong
in him since boyhood, and began, under the name of Jean Rebel, to
send verses to the Parisian periodicals. When only twenty-three
years of age he wrote for the Academie Frangaise a one-act drama
in verse, (Juan Strenner,* which however was not a success. The
outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war in the
same year roused his martial spirit; he en-
listed, and at once entered active service, in
which he distinguished himself by acts of
signal bravery. A wound near the close of
the hostilities took him from the field; and it
was during the retirement thus enforced that
he wrote the lyrics, ( Songs of the Soldier, *
that first made him famous throughout his
native country.
Not since the days of the ( Marseillaise >
had the fighting spirit of the French people
found such sympathetic expression ; his songs
were read and sung all over the country;
they received the highest honor of the Acad-
emy, and their popularity continued after peace was declared, nearly
one hundred and fifty editions having been exhausted up to 1895.
Deroulede now devoted himself to literature and politics. (New
Songs of the Soldier * and a volume of ( Songs of the Peasant, *
almost as popular as the war songs, were interspersed with two more
dramatic works, also in verse, one of which, 'L'Hetman,* was re-
ceived on the stage with great favor. A cantata, (Vive la France,'
written in 1880, was set to music by Gounod. He also wrote a novel
and ' some treatises dealing with armies and fighting, but his prose
works did not attract much attention.
Deroulede 's best verses are distinguished for their inspiration and
genuine enthusiasm. Careless of form and finish, not always stop-
ping to make sure of his rhymes or perfect his metre, he gave the
freest vent to his emotions. Some of the heart-glow which makes
PAUL DEROULEDE
PAUL DfiROULfiDE
4581
the exhilaration of Burns's poems infectious is found in his songs,
but they are generally so entirely French that its scope is limited in
a way that the Scotch poet's, despite his vernacular, was not. The
Frenchman's sympathy is always with the harder side of life. In the
* Songs of the Soldier > he plays on chords of steel. These verses
resound with the blast of the bugle, the roll of the drum, the flash
of the sword, the rattle of musketry, the boom of the cannon; and
even in the < Songs of the Peasant * it is the corn and the wine, as
the fruit of toil, that appeal to him, rather than the grass and the
flowers embellishing the fields.
THE HARVEST
From < Chants du Paysan >
THE wheat, the hardy wheat is rippling on the breeze.
'Tis our great mother's sacred mantle spread afar,
Old Earth revered, who gives us life, in whom we are,
We the dull clay the living God molds as he please.
The wheat, the hardy wheat bends down its heavy head,
Blessed and consecrate by the Eternal hand;
The stalks are green although the yellow ears expand:
Keep them, O Lord, from 'neath the tempest's crushing tread!
The wheat, the hardy wheat spreads like a golden sea
Whose harvesters — bent low beneath the sun's fierce light,
Stanch galley-slaves, whose oar is now the sickle bright —
Cleave down the waves before them falling ceaselessly.
The wheat, the hardy wheat ranged in its serried rows.
Seems like some noble camp upon the distant plain.
Glory to God ! — the crickets chirp their wide refrain ;
From sheaf to sheaf the welcome bread-song sweeping goes.
Translated for <A Library of the World's Best Literature,* by Thomas Walsh.
4582 PAUL DfiROULfiDE
IN GOOD QUARTERS
From <Poemes Militaires>
MlREBEAU, 1871
GOOD old woman, bother not,
Or the place will be too hot:
You might let the fire grow old —
Save your fagots for the cold:
I am drying through and through.
But she, stopping not to hear,
Shook the smoldering ashes near:
"Soldier, not too warm for you!w
Good old woman, do not mind;
At the storehouse I have dined:
Save your vintage and your ham,
And this cloth — such as I am
Are not used to — save it too.
But she heard not what I said —
Filled my glass and cut the bread :
w Soldier, it is here for you ! w
Good old woman — sheets for me !
Faith, you treat me royally:
And your stable ? on your hay ?
There at length my limbs to lay ?
I shall sleep like monarchs true.
But she would not be denied
Of the sheets, and spread them wide :
"Soldier, it is made for you!*
Morning came — the parting tear :
Well — good-by! What have we here?
My old knapsack full of food!
Dear old creature — hostess good —
Why indulge me as you do ?
It was all that she could say,
Smiling in a tearful way:
<(I have one at war like you!w
Translated for (A Library of the World's Best Literature, > by Thomas Walsh.
PAUL DEROULEDE 4583
«GOOD FIGHTING !»
From ( Poemes Militaires >
THE Kroumirs leave their mountain den;
Sing, bullets, sing! and btfgles, blow!
Good fighting to our gallant men,
And happy they who follow, when,
Brothers in arms so dear, these go.
Yea, happy they who serve our France,
And neither pain nor danger fly;
But in the front of war's advance
Still deem it but a glorious chance,
To be among the brave who die!
No splendid war do we begin,
No glory waits us when 'tis past;
But marching through the fiery din,
We see our serried ranks grow thin,
And blood of Frenchmen welling fast.
French blood! — a treasure so august,
And hoarded with such jealous care,
To crush oppression's strength unjust,
With all the force of right robust,
And buy us back our honor fair; —
We yield it now to duty's claim,
And freely pour out all our store ;
Who judges, frees us still from blame;
The Kroumirs' muskets war proclaim; —
In answer let French cannon roar!
Good fighting! and God be your shield,
Our pride's avengers, brave and true!
France watches you upon the field.
Who wear her colors never yield,
For 'tis her heart ye bear with you!
Translated for <A Library of the World's Best Literature, > by Katharine
Hillard.
4584
A
PAUL DEROULEDE
LAST WISHES
From 'Poemes Militaires*
GRAVE for me — a grave — and why ?
I do not wish to sleep alone :
Let me within the trenches lie,
Side by side with my soldiers thrown.
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
Come, 'tis our final "halt* is nigh:
Clasp yotir brave hearts to my own.
A sheet for me — a sheet — and why?
Such is for them on their beds who moan:
The field is the soldier's place to die,
The field of carnage, of blood and bone.
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
This is the prayer of my soul's last sigh :
Clasp your brave hearts to my own.
Tears for me — these tears — and why?
Knells let the vanquished foe intone !
France delivered! — I still can cry,
France delivered — invaders flown!
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
Pain is nothing, and death — a lie !
Clasp your brave hearts to my own!
Translated for 1A Library of the World's Best Literature,) by Thomas Walsh.
RENE DESCARTES
(1596-1650)
|HE broad scope of literature is illustrated by its inclusion of
the writings of Rene Descartes (Latinized, Renatus Carte-
sius). Deliberately turning away from books, and making
naught alike of learned precedent and literary form, he yet could
not but avail himself unconsciously of the heritage which he had
discarded.
This notable figure in seventeenth-century philosophy was born of
ancient family at La Haye, in Touraine, France, March 3ist, 1596;
and died at Stockholm, Sweden, February nth, 1650. From a pleas-
ant student life of eight years in the Jesuit college at La Fleche, he
went forth in his seventeenth year with unusual acquirements in
mathematics and languages, but in deep dissatisfaction with the long
dominant scholastic philosophy and the whole method prescribed for
arriving at truth. In a strong youthful revolt, his first step was a
decision to discharge his mind of all the prejudices into which his
education had trained his thinking. As a beginning in this work he
went to Paris, for observation of facts and of men. There, having
drifted through a twelvemonth of moderate dissipation, he secluded
himself for nearly two years of mathematical study, as though pur-
posing to reduce his universe to an equation in order to solve it.
The laws of number he could trust, since their lines configured the
eternal harmony.
At the age of twenty-one he entered on a military service of two
years in the army of the Netherlands, and then of about two years
in the Bavarian army. From 1621, for about four years, he was
roaming as an observer of men and nature in Germany, Belgium,
and Italy, afterward sojourning in Paris about three and a half
years. In 1629 he began twenty years of study and authorship in
practical seclusion in Holland. His little work, < Discours de la Meth-
ode* (Leyden, 1637), is often declared to have been the basis for a
reconstitution of the science of thought. It would now perhaps be
viewed by the majority of critics rather as a necessary clearing of
antiquated rubbish from the ground on which the new construction
was to rise. Next to it among his works are usually ranked <Medi-
tationes de Prima Philosophia,* and ^rincipia Philosophise.*
The long sojourn in Holland was ended in September 1649, in
response to an urgent invitation from the studious young Queen
4586
RENE DESCARTES
Christina of Sweden, who wanted the now famous philosopher as an
ornament to her court. After some hesitancy he sailed for Stock-
holm, where only five months afterward he died.
It has been said of Descartes that he was a spectator rather than
an active worker in affairs. He was no hero, no patriot, no adherent
of any party. He entered armies, but not from love of a cause ; the
army was a sphere in which he could closely observe the aspects of
human life. He was never married, and probably had little concern
with love. His attachment to a few friends seems to have been
sincere. For literature as such he cared little. Erudition, scholar-
ship, historic love, literary elegance, were nothing to him. Art and
aesthetics did not appeal to him. Probably he was not a great reader,
even of philosophic writers. He delighted in observing facts with a
view to finding, stating, and systematizing their relations in one all-
comprehending scheme. He never allowed himself to attack the
Church in either its doctrine or its discipline. As a writer, though
making no attempt at elegance in style, he is deemed remarkably
clear and direct when the abstruseness of his usual themes is con- •
sidered.
Descartes's method in philosophy gives signs of formation on the
model of a process in mathematics. In all investigations he would
ascertain first what must exist by necessity; thus establishing axioms
evidenced in all experience, because independent of all experience.
The study of mathematics for use in other departments drew him
into investigations whose results made it a new science. He reformed
its clumsy nomenclature, also the algebraic use of letters for quan-
tities; he introduced system into the use of exponents to denote
the powers of a quantity, thus opening the way for the binomial
theorem; he was the first to throw clear light on the negative roots of
equations; his is the theorem by use of which the maximum number
of positive or negative roots of an equation can be ascertained.
Analytical geometry originated with his investigation of the nature
and origin of curves.
His mathematical improvements opened the way for the reform
of physical science and for its immense modern advance. In his
optical investigations he established the law of refraction of light.
His ingenious theory of the vortices — tracing gravity, magnetism,
light, and heat, to the whirling or revolving movements of the mol-
ecules of matter with which the universe is filled — was accepted as
science for about a quarter of a century.
In mental science Descartes's primary instrument for search of
truth was Doubt: everything was to be doubted until it had been
proved. This was provisional skepticism, merely to provide against
foregone conclusions. It was not to preclude belief, but to summon
RENE DESCARTES
4587
and assure belief as distinct from the inane submission to authority,
to prejudice, or to impulse. In this process of doubting everything,
the philosopher comes at last to one fact which he cannot doubt —
the fact that he exists; for if he did not exist he could not be think-
ing his doubt. Cogito, ergo sum is one point of absolute knowledge;
it is a clear and ultimate perception.
The first principle of his philosophy is, that our consciousness is
truthful in its proper sphere, also that our thought is truthful and
trustworthy under these two conditions — when the thought is clear
and vivid, and when it is held to a theme utterly distinct from every
other theme; since it is impossible for us to believe that either man
who thinks, or the universe concerning which he thinks, is organized
on the basis of a lie. There are (< necessary truths, J) and they are
discoverable.
A second principle is, the inevitable ascent of our thought from
the fragmentary to the perfect, from the finite to the infinite. Thus
the thought of the infinite is an "innate idea,8 a part of man's poten-
tial consciousness. This principle (set forth in one of the selections
given herewith) is the Cartesian form of the a priori argument for
the Divine existence, which like other a priori forms is viewed by
critics not as a proof in pure logic, but as a commanding and lumin-
ous appeal to man's entire moral and intellectual nature.
A third principle is, that the material universe is necessarily re-
duced in our thought ultimately to two forms, extension and local
movement — extension signifying matter, local movement signifying
force. There is no such thing as empty space; there are no ultimate
indivisible atoms; the universe is infinitely full of matter.
A fourth principle is, that the soul and matter are subsistences so
fundamentally and absolutely distinct that they cannot act in recip-
rocal relations. This compelled Descartes to resort to his strained
supposition that all correspondence or synchronism between bodily
movements and mental or spiritual activities is merely reflex or auto-
matic, or else is produced directly by act of Deity. For relief from
this violent hypothesis, Leibnitz modified the Cartesian philosophy by
his famous theory of a pre-established harmony.
Descartes did a great work, but it was not an abiding reconstruc-
tion: indeed, it was not construction so much as it was a dream —
one of the grandest and most suggestive in the history of thought.
Its audacious disparagement of the whole scholastic method startled
Europe, upon the dead air of whose philosophy it came as a refresh-
ing breath of transcendental thought. Its suggestions and inspirations
are traceable as a permanent enrichment, though its vast fabric
swiftly dissolved. The early enthusiasm for it in French literary
circles and among professors in the universities of Holland scarcely
4588 RENE DESCARTES
outlasted a generation. Within a dozen years after the philosopher's
death, the Cartesian philosophy was prohibited by ecclesiastical
authorities and excluded from the schools. In the British Isles and
in Germany the system has been usually considered as an interesting
curiosity in the cabinet of philosophies. Yet the unity of all truth
through relations vital, subtle, firm, and universal, though seen only
in a vision of the night, abides when the night is gone.
With the impressive and noteworthy <Discours de la Methode*
(Leyden, 1637), were published three essays supporting it: (La Diop-
trique,* (Les Meteores,* (La Geometrie.* Of his other works, the most
important are ( Meditationes de Prima Philosophia) (Paris, 1641; Am-
sterdam, 1642), and (Principia Philosophise* (Amsterdam, 1644). A
useful English translation of his most important writings, with an
introduction, is by John Veitch, LL. D., — (The Method, Meditations,
and Selections from the Principles * (Edinburgh, 1853; 6th ed.,
Blackwoods, Edinburgh and London, 1879). See also, English trans-
lations of portions of his philosophical works, by W. Cunningham
(1877), Lowndes (1878), Mahaffy (1880), Martineau (1885), Henry Rogers,
Huxley, and L. Stephen.
For his Life, see *Vie de Descartes,* by .Baillet (2 vols. 1691);
< Descartes sa Vie,* etc., by Millet (2 vols. 1867-71); ( Descartes and
his School,* by Kuno Fischer (English translation, 1887).
OF CERTAIN PRINCIPLES OF ELEMENTARY LOGICAL THOUGHT
From the < Discourse on Method >
As A multitude of laws often only hampers justice, so that a
State is best governed when, with few laws, these are
rigidly administered; in like manner, instead of the great
number of precepts of which Logic is composed, I believed that
the four following would prove perfectly sufficient for me, pro-
vided I took the firm and unwavering resolution never in a single
instance to fail in observing them.
The first was never to accept anything for true which I did
not clearly know to be such; that is to say, carefully to avoid
precipitancy and prejudice, and to comprise nothing more in my
judgment than what was presented to my mind so clearly and
distinctly as to exclude all ground of doubt.
The second, to divide each of the difficulties under examina-
tion into as many parts as possible, and as might be necessary
for its adequate solution.
RENE DESCARTES
The third, to conduct my thoughts in such order that, by
commencing with objects the simplest and easiest to know, I
might ascend by little and little, and as it were step by step, to
the knowledge of the more complex; assigning in thought a cer-
tain order even to those objects which in their own nature do not
stand in a relation of antecedence and sequence.
And the last, in every case to make enumerations so complete,
and reviews so general, that it might be assured that nothing was
omitted.
The long chains of simple and easy reasonings by means of
which geometers are accustomed to reach the conclusions of their
most difficult demonstrations, had led me to imagine that all
things to the knowledge of which man is competent are mutu-
ally connected in the same way, and that there is nothing so far
removed from us as to be beyond our reach, or so hidden that
we cannot discover it, provided only we abstain from accepting
the false for the true, and always preserve in our thoughts the
order necessary for the deduction of one truth from another.
And I had little difficulty in determining the objects with which
it was necessary to commence, for I was already persuaded that
it must be with the simplest and easiest to know, and, consider-
ing that of all those who have hitherto sought truth in the
Sciences, the mathematicians alone have been able to find any
demonstrations, — that is, any certain and evident reasons, — I did
not doubt but that such must have been the rule of their inves-
tigations. I resolved to commence, therefore, with the examina-
tion of the simplest objects, not anticipating, however, from this
any other advantage than that to be found in accustoming my
mind to the love and nourishment of truth, and to a distaste for
all such reasonings as were unsound. But I had no intention on
that account of attempting to master all the particular sciences
commonly denominated Mathematics: but observing that however
different their objects, they all agree in considering only the vari-
ous relations or proportions subsisting among those objects, I
thought it best for my purpose to consider these proportions in
the most general form possible; without referring them to any
objects in particular, except such as would most facilitate the
knowledge of them, and without by any means restricting them
to these, that afterwards I might thus be the better able to
apply them to every other class of objects to which they are
legitimately applicable. Perceiving, further, that in order to
RENE DESCARTES
understand these relations I should sometimes have to consider
them one by one, and sometimes only to bear them in mind,
or embrace them in the aggregate, I thought that in order the
better to consider them individually, I should view them as sub-
sisting between straight lines, than which I could find no objects
more simple, or capable of being more distinctly represented to
my imagination and senses; and on the other hand, that in order
to retain them in the memory, or embrace an aggregate of many,
I should express them by certain characters the briefest possible.
In this way I believed that I could borrow all that was best both
in geometrical analysis and in algebra, and correct all the defects
of the one by help of the other.
AN ELEMENTARY METHOD OF INQUIRY
From the < Discourse on Method >
SEEING that our senses sometimes deceive us, I was willing to
suppose that there existed nothing really such as they pre-
sented to us; and because some men err in reasoning and
fall into paralogisms, even on the simplest matters of geometry,
I, convinced that I was as open to error as any other, rejected
as false all the reasonings I had hitherto taken for demonstra-
tions; and finally, when I considered that the very same thoughts
(presentations) which we experience when awake may also be
experienced when we are asleep, while there is at that time not
one of them true, I supposed that all the objects (presentations)
that had ever entered into my mind when awake had in them
no more truth than the illusions of my dreams. But immedi-
ately upon this I observed that whilst I thus wished to think
that all was false, it was absolutely necessary that I, who thus
thought, should be somewhat; and as I observed that this truth,
— ^ I think, hence I am* — was so certain and of such evidence
that no ground of doubt, however extravagant, could be alleged
by the skeptics capable of shaking it, I concluded that I might
without scruple accept it as the first principle of the philosophy
of which I was in search.
In the next place, I attentively examined what I was, and as
I observed that I could suppose that I had no body, and that
that there was no world nor any place in which I might be; but
that I could not therefore suppose that I was not; and that on
RENE DESCARTES 459I
the contrary, from the very circumstance that I thought to doubt
of the truth of other things, it most clearly and certainly fol-
lowed that I was; while on the other hand, if I had only ceased
to think, although all the other objects which I had ever im-
agined had been in reality existent, I would have had no reason
to believe that I existed; I thence concluded that I was a sub-
stance whose whole essence or nature consists only in thinking,
and which, that it may exist, has need of no place, nor is
dependent on any material thing; so that "I" — that is to say,
the mind by which I am what I am — is wholly distinct from
the body, and is even more easily known than the latter, and is
such that although the latter were not, it would still continue to
be all that it is.
After this I inquired in general into what is essential to the
truth and certainty of a proposition; for since I had discovered
one which I knew to be true, I thought that I must likewise be
able to discover the ground of this certitude. And as I observed
that in the words (</ think, hence I am* there is nothing at all
which gives me assurance of their truth beyond this, that I see
very clearly that in order to think it is necessary to exist, — I con-
cluded that I might take, as a general rule, the principle that all
the things which we very clearly and distinctly conceive are true;
only observing however that there is some difficulty in rightly
determining the objects which we distinctly conceive.
In the next place, from reflecting on the circumstance that I
doubted, and that consequently my being was not wholly perfect
(for I clearly saw that it was a greater perfection to know than
to doubt), I was led to inquire whence I had learned to think of
something more perfect than myself; and I clearly recognized
that I must hold this notion from some Nature which in reality
was more perfect. As for the thoughts of many other objects
external to me, as of the sky, the earth, light, heat, and a thou-
sand more, I was less at a loss to know whence these came; for
since I remarked in them nothing which seemed to render them
superior to myself, I could believe that if these were true, they
were dependences on my own nature in so far as it possessed a
certain perfection; and if they were false, that I held them from
nothing, — that is to say, that they were in me because of a cer-
tain imperfection of my nature. But this could not be the case
with the idea of a Nature more perfect than myself: for to re-
ceive it from nothing was a thing manifestly impossible; and
4592
RENE DESCARTES
because it is not less repugnant that the more perfect should be
an effect of and dependence on the less perfect, than that some-
thing should proceed from nothing, it was equally impossible
that I could hold it from myself: accordingly it but remained
that it had been placed in me by a Nature which was in reality
more perfect than mine, and which even possessed within itself
all the perfections of which I could form any idea, — that is to
say, in a single word, which was God.
I was disposed straightway to search for other truths; and
when I had represented to myself the object of the geometers,
which I conceived to be a continuous body, or a space indefi-
nitely extended in length, breadth, and height or depth, divisible
into divers parts which admit of different figures and sizes, and
of being moved or transposed in all manner of ways (for all this
the geometers suppose to be in the object they contemplate), I
went over some of their simplest demonstrations. And in the
first place, I observed that the great certitude which by common
consent is accorded to these demonstrations is founded solely
upon this, that they are clearly conceived in accordance with the
rules I have already laid down. In the next place, I perceived
that there was nothing at all in these demonstrations which could
assure me of the existence of their object: thus, for example,
supposing a triangle to be given, I distinctly perceived that its
three angles were necessarily equal to two right angles, but I did
not on that account perceive anything which could assure me
that any triangle existed; while on the contrary, recurring to the
examination of the idea of a Perfect Being, I found that the
existence of the Being was comprised in the idea in the same
way that the equality of its three angles to two right angles is
comprised in the idea of a triangle, or as in the idea of a sphere,
the equidistance of all points on its surface from the centre, or
even still more clearly; and that consequently it is at least as
certain that God, who is this Perfect Being, is, or exists, as any
demonstration of geometry can be.
RENE DESCARTES
THE IDEA OF GOD
From the < Meditations >
THERE only remains, therefore, the idea of God, in which I
must consider whether there is anything that cannot be
supposed to originate with myself. By the name God I
understand a substance infinite, eternal, immutable, independent,
all-knowing, all-powerful, and by which I myself, and every other
thing that exists, — if any such there be, — were created. But
these properties are so great and excellent, that the more atten-
tively I consider them, the less I feel persuaded that the idea I
have of them owes its origin to myself alone. And thus it is
absolutely necessary to conclude, from all that I have before
said, that God exists; for though the idea of substance be in my
mind owing to this, — that I myself am a substance, — I should
not however have the idea of an infinite substance, seeing I am
a finite being, unless it were given me by some substance in
reality infinite.
And I must not imagine that I do not apprehend the infinite
by a true idea, but only by the negation of the finite, in the
same way that I comprehend repose and darkness by the nega-
tion of motion and light: since, on the contrary, I clearly perceive
that there is more reality in the infinite substance than in the
finite, and therefore that in some way I possess the perception
(notion) of the infinite before that of the finite, that is, the per-
ception of God before that of myself; for how could I know that
I doubt, desire, or that something is wanting to me, and that I
am not wholly perfect, if I possessed no idea of a being more
perfect than myself, by comparison with which I knew the
deficiencies of my nature ?
And it cannot be said that this idea of God is perhaps ma-
terially false, and consequently that it may have arisen from
nothing (in other words, that it may exist in me from my im-
perfection), as I before said of the ideas of heat and cold, and
the like; for on the contrary, as this idea is very clear and dis-
tinct, and contains in itself more objective reality than any other,
there can be no one of itself more true, or less open to the
suspicion of falsity.
The idea, I say, of a being supremely perfect and infinite, is
in the highest degree true ; for although perhaps we may imagine
VIII — 288
RENE DESCARTES
that such a being does not exist, we nevertheless cannot suppose
that this idea represents nothing real, as I have already said
of the idea of cold. It is likewise clear and distinct in the high-
est degree, since whatever the mind clearly and distinctly con-
ceives as real or true, and as implying any perfection, is
contained entire in this idea. And this is true, nevertheless,
although I do not comprehend the infinite, and although there
may be in God an infinity of things that I cannot comprehend,
nor perhaps even compass by thought in any way; for it is of
the nature of the infinite that it should not be comprehended by
the finite: and it is enough that I rightly understand this, and
judge that all which I clearly perceive, and in which I know
there is some perfection, and perhaps also an infinity of proper-
ties of which I am ignorant, are formally or eminently in God,
in order that the idea I have of him may become the most true,
clear, and distinct of all the ideas in my mind.
But perhaps I am something more than I suppose myself to
be; and it may be that all those perfections which I attribute to
God in some way exist potentially in me, although they do not
yet show themselves and are not reduced to act. Indeed, I am
already conscious that my knowledge is being increased and per-
fected by degrees; and I see nothing to prevent it from thus
gradually increasing to infinity, nor any reason why, after such
increase and perfection, I should not be able thereby to acquire
all the other perfections of the Divine nature; nor in fine, why
the power I possess of acquiring those perfections, if it really
now exist in me, should not be sufficient to produce the ideas of
them. Yet on looking more closely into the matter I discover
that this cannot be; for in the first place, although it were true
that my knowledge daily acquired new degrees of perfection, and
although there were potentially in my nature much that was not
as yet actually in it, still all these excellences make not the
slightest approach to the idea I have of the Deity, in whom
there is no perfection merely potentially, but all actually exist-
ent; for it is even an unmistakable token of imperfection in my
knowledge, that it is augmented by degrees. Further, although
my knowledge increase more and more, nevertheless I am not
therefore induced to think that it will ever be actually infinite, '
since it can never reach that point beyond which it shall be
incapable of further increase. But I conceive God as actually
infinite, so that nothing can be added to his perfection. And in
RENE DESCARTES 4595
fine, I readily perceive that the objective being of an idea cannot
be produced by a being that is merely potentially existent, —
which properly speaking is nothing, but only a being existing
formally or actually.
And truly, I see nothing in all that I have now said which it
is not easy for any one who shall carefully consider it, to dis-
cern by the natural light; but when I allow my attention in
some degree to relax, the vision of my mind being obscured and
as it were blinded by the images of sensible objects, I do not
readily remember the reason why the idea of a being more per-
fect than myself must of necessity have proceeded from a being
in reality more perfect. On this account I am here desirous to
inquire further whether I, who possess this idea of God, could
exist supposing there were no God. And I ask, from whom
could I in that case derive my existence ? Perhaps from myself,
or from my parents, or from some other causes less perfect than
God; for anything more perfect, or even equal to God, cannot be
thought or imagined. But if I were independent of every other
existence, and were myself the author of my being, I should
doubt of nothing, I should desire nothing, and in fine, no per-
fection would be wanting to me; for I should have bestowed
upon myself every perfection of which I possess the idea, and I
should thus be God. And it must not be imagined that what is
now wanting to me is perhaps of more difficult acquisition than
that of which I am already possessed; for on the contrary, it is
quite manifest that it was a matter of much higher difficulty
that I, a thinking being, should arise from nothing, than it
would be for me to acquire the knowledge of many things of
which I am ignorant, and which are merely the accidents of a
thinking substance; and certainly, if I possessed of myself the
greater perfection of which I have now spoken, — in other words,
if I were the author of my own existence, — I would not at least
have denied to myself things that may be more easily obtained,
as that infinite variety of knowledge of which I am at present
destitute. I could not indeed have denied to myself any prop-
erty which I perceive is contained in the idea of God, because
there is none of these that seems to be more difficult to make
or acquire; and if there were any that should happen to be
more difficult to acquire, they would certainly appear so to me
(supposing that I myself were the source of the other things I
possess), because I should discover in them a limit to my power.
4596
PAUL DESJARDINS
BY GRACE KING
IHAT a man stands for, in the life and literature of his day, is
easily enough estimated when his name passes current in
his language for a hitherto undesignated shade of meaning.
One of the most acute and sensitive of contemporary French critics,
M. Jules Lemaitre, in an article on an evolutionary phase in modern
literature, expresses its significant characteristic to be — <( L'ideal de
vie interieure, la morale absolue, — si je puis m'exprimer ainsi, le
Desjardinisme " (The ideal of spiritual life, absolute morality, — if
I may so express myself, Desjardinism). The term, quickly appro-
priated by another French critic, and one of the remarkable women
of letters of her day, — the late Baronne Blaze de Bury, — is literally
interpreted as <( summing up whatever is highest and purest and
of most rare attainment in the idealism of the present hour.M And
she further, with the intuition of her sex, feeling a pertinent ques-
tion before it is put, singles out the vital germ of difference which
distinguishes this young writer as typical of the idealism of the
hour, and makes him its name-giver: — ((What is in other men the
indirect and hidden source of their public acts, is in Paul Desjardino
the direct source of life itself — the life to be lived; and also of the
mode in which that life is to be conceived and to be made apparent
to the world. J) Of the life, w sincerity is its prime virtue. Each
leader proves his faith by his individual conduct, as by his judgments
on events and men. The pure passion of abstract thought fires each
to do the best that is his to do. His life is to be the word-for-word
translation of his own spirit."
The death-bed repentance of a century, born skeptical, reared
decadent, and professing practical materialism ; the conversion of a
literature from the pure passion of the senses to the pure passion
of abstract thought; the assumption of an apostolic mission by jour-
nalists, novelists, playwrights, college professors, and scientific mas-
ters, will doubtless furnish the century to come with one of its
most curious and interesting fields of study. It is an episode in evo-
lution which may indeed be termed dramatic, this fifth act of the
nineteenth-century epic of France, — or it might be called, of Paris;
the story of its pilgrimage from revolution to evolution. M. Melchior
de Vogue, himself one of the apostles of the new life, or of the new
PAUL DESJARDINS 4597
work in the old life, of France, describes the preparation of the
national soil for the growth of Desjardinism. He says: —
"The French children who were born just before 1870 grew up in an
atmosphere of patriotic mourning and amidst the discouragement of defeat.
National life, such as it became reconstituted after that terrible shock, re-
vealed to them on all sides nothing but abortive hopes, paltry struggles of
interest, and a society without any other hierarchy but that of money, and
without other principle or ideal than the pursuit of material enjoyment.
Literature . . . reflected these same tendencies; it was dejected or vile,
and distressed the heart by its artistic dryness or disgusted it by its trivial
realism. Science itself . . . began to appear to many what it is in reality,
namely, a means, not an end; its prestige declined and its infallibility was
questioned. . . . Above all, it was clear from too evident social symptoms
that if science can satisfy some very distinguished minds, it can do nothing
to moralize and discipline societies.
w For a hundred years after the destruction of the religious and political
dogmas of the past, France had lived as best she could on some few fragile
dogmas, which had in their turn been consecrated by a naive superstition;
these dogmas were the principles of 1789 — the almightiness of reason, the
efficacy of absolute liberty, the sovereignty of the people — in a word, the
whole credo of the revolution. ... In order to shake that faith [in these
principles] ... it was necessary that human reason, proclaimed infalli-
ble, should turn its arms against itself. And that is what happened. Scien-
tific criticism, after having ruined old dogmatism, . . . made as short
work of the revolutionary legend as of the monarchical one, and showed itself
as pitiless for the rights of man as it had been for the rights of God. All
these causes combined, sufficiently explain the nihilism and pessimism which
invaded the souls of the young during the past ten years. . . . Clear-
sighted boys analyzed life with a vigor and a precision unknown to their pred-
ecessors; having analyzed it, they found it bad; they turned away from life
with fear and horror. There was heard from the peaks of intelligence a great
cry of discouragement : — < Beware of deceitful nature ; fear life, emancipate
yourselves from life ! > This cry was first uttered by the masters of con-
temporary thought, — a Schopenhauer, a Taine, a Tolstoy; below them, thou-
sands of humbler voices repeat it in chorus. According to each one's turn of
mind, the new philosophy assumed shades different in appearance — Buddhist
nirvana, atheistic nihilism, mystic asceticism; but all these theories proceeded
from the same sentiment, and all these doctrines may be reduced to the
same formula: — <Let us depreciate life, let us escape from its snares. >»
Paul Desjardins, by name and family, belongs to the old bourgeoisie
of France, that reserve force of Gallic virtue to which the French
people always look for help in political and moral crises. Like most
of the young men of distinction in the French world of letters, he
combines professional and literary work; he is professor of rhetoric
at the College of St. Stanislas in Paris, and a member of the brilliant
editorial staff of the Journal des Debats. Paris offered to his grasp
4598 PAUL DESJARDINS
her same old choice of subjects, to his eye the same aspects of life,
which form her one freehold for all artists, and he had but the
instrument of his guild — his pen; the series of his collected contri-
butions to journals and magazines bear a no more distinctive title
than the hackneyed one of ( Notes Contemporaines,* but the sub-titles
betray at once the trend of originality : ( Great Souls and Little
Lives,* ( The Obscure Ones,* ( Companions of the New Life*; and in
the treatment of these subjects, and especially in his sketches of
character and critical essays upon the literature of his day, Desjar-
dins's originality resolves itself more and more clearly into spiritual-
ity of thought, expressed in an incorruptible simplicity of style. To
quote from Madame de Bury again: — <(One of the chief character-
istics of Paul Desjardins's utterances is their total disinterestedness,
their absolute detachment from self. Nowhere else have you the
same indescribable purity, the same boundless generosity of joy in
others' good, the same pervading altruism. **
These writings were the expression of a mind on a journey, a
quest, — not of any one definite mind, for so completely has the per-
sonality of the author been subdued to his mission, that his mind
seems typical of the general mind of young France in quest of spir-
ituality, his individuality a common one to all participants in the new
movement, as it is called.
In 1892 the boldest effort of Desjardins's, — a small pamphlet, (The
Present Duty,* — appeared. It created a sensation in the thinking
world of Paris. It marked a definite stage accomplished in the new
movement, and an arrival at one stopping-place at least. While the
critics we're still diagnosing over the pamphlet as a theory, a small
band of men, avowing the same convictions as Desjardins, proceeded
to test it as a practical truth. They enrolled themselves into a
* Union for Moral Action, ** which had for its object to associate
together, without regard to religious or political beliefs, all serious-
minded men who cared to work for the formation of a healthy public
opinion, for a moral awakening, and for the education and strength-
ening of the modern decadent or enervated will power. In general,
it is common interests, doctrines, needs, that bring men together in
associations. The Union for Moral Action sought, on the contrary,
to associate men of diverse interests and opinions — adversaries even,
— into collaboration for the common morality. In response to the
interpellations, questions, and doubts evoked by x The Present Duty,*
Desjardins published in the Debats a series of articles on <The Con-
version of the Church.* They contributed still more to differentiate
him from the other leaders of the new movement; in fact, few caring
to share the responsibility of such radical utterances, he has been
left in literary isolation in his advanced position: a position which,
PAUL DESJARDINS
although it can but command the admiration and respect of the press
and the educational and religious contingent of Paris, none the less
attracts sarcasm and irony in the world's centre of wit, sensual
tolerance, and moral skepticism. As the reproach of his literary con-
freres expresses it, the author has given way before the apostle.
The "life to be lived" commanded the sacrifice. Desjardins makes
now but rare appearances in his old journalistic places, and in litera-
ture he has determinately severed connections through which fame
and fortune might confidently be expected. He now gives his writ-
ings anonymously to the small weekly publication, the official organ
of the Union for Moral Action, depending for his living upon his pro-
fessorial position in the College St. Stanislas.
(Une Critique,' one of Desjardins's earliest essays, strikes the note
of his life and writings at a time when he himself was unconscious
of its portentous meaning to his world and his literature : —
« Whatever deserves to be, deserves the best attention of our intellect.
Everything calls for interest, only it must be an interest divested of self-
interest, and sincere. But above all we must labor — labor hard — to under-
stand, respect, and tenderly love in others whatever contains one single grain
of simple intrinsic Goodness. Believe me, this is everywhere, and it is every-
where to be found, if you will only look for it. ...
<(The supremacy of the truly Good! — here lies the root of the whole
teaching — the whole new way of looking at things and judging men. . . .
<(New views of the universality of our world, of poetry, of religion, of
kindness (human kindness), of virtue, of worth! . . . Think it over; these
are the objects on which our new generation is fixing its thoughts, and try-
ing to awaken yours. This it is which is so new!w
Translation of Madame Blaze de Bury.
4600 PAUL DESJARDINS
THE PRESENT DUTY
THERE are many of us who at times have forgotten our per-
sonal troubles, however great they were, by picturing to
ourselves the moral distress of souls around us, and by
meditating on the possible remedy for this universal ill. Some
remain serene before this spectacle; they resign themselves to
fatal evil and inextricable doubt; they look with cold blood on
that which is. Others, like the one who speaks here, are more
affirmative because they are more impassioned, more wounded,
knowing neither how to forget nor how to be patient, nor yet
how to despair peaceably; they are less troubled by that which
is, than by that which ought to be; they have even turned
towards that which ought to be, as towards the salvation for
which their whole heart is calling. It is their weakness not to
know how to interest themselves for any length of time in what
does not in some way assume the aspect of a duty that concerns
them. They do not contest, in fact, that it is a weakness not to
be able to look with a disinterested eye on disease, corporal or
spiritual ; a weakness to feel the necessity of having something to
do at the bedside of the dying, even if that something be in
vain, — to employ the anguish of one's heart in preparing,
even up to the supreme moment, remedies in the shadow of the
chamber.
We are in a state of war. It would be almost cowardly to
be silent about our intimate beliefs, for they are contradicted and
attacked. We must not content ourselves with a pacification or
truce which will permit us with facile weakness to open all the
pores of our intelligence to ideas contrary to our conviction. It
is necessary on the contrary to gird ourselves, to intrench our-
selves. There is to-day, between us and many of our contem-
poraries, an irreconcilable disagreement that must be faced, a
great combat in which parts must be taken. As far as I can see
this is what it is. In a word, are subjection to animal instinct,
egoism, falsehood, absolutely evil, or are they merely <( inele-
gances w ? — that is to say, things deprecated just at present, but
which, well ornamented and perfumed with grace, might not
again attract us, satisfy us, furnish us a type of life equivalent
after all to the life of the sages and saints; for nothing shows us
with certainty that the latter is any better than the former.
PAUL DESJARDINS 46oi
Are justice and love a sure good, a sure law, and the harbor of
safety ? Or are they possible illusions, probable vanities ? Have
we a destiny, an ideal, or are we agitating ourselves without
cause and without purpose for the amusement of some malicious
demiurge, or simply for the absurd caprice of great Pan ? This
is the question that divides consciences. A great subject of dis-
pute; surely greater than that of the divinity of Jesus Christ, for
example, than that even of the existence of a personal God, or
of any other purely speculative question you please; and above
all, one more urgent: for there are counter-blows in it, which
frighten me in my every-day existence, — me, a man kept to the
business of living from the hour I awake to the light until the
hour I go to sleep; and according to the answer I may give
myself on this point, is the spirit in which I dig in my little
garden.
Personally I have taken sides, after reflection; after experi-
ence also, I do profess with conviction that humanity has a des-
tiny and that we live for something. What is to be understood
exactly by this word humanity ? In short, I know not, only that
this, of which I know nothing, does not exist yet, but it is on
the road to existence, on the road to make itself known; and
that it concerns me who am here. What must be understood
by this word destiny ? I do not know much more ; I have only,
so far, dreams about it, dreams born of some profound but
incommunicable love, which an equal love only could under-
stand; my conscience is not pure enough to conceive a stronger
conviction; I only affirm that this destiny of humanity, if it were
known, would be such that all men, ignorant or simple, could
participate in it. It is already something to know that, in short,
I see at least by lightning-flashes, from which side the future
will shine; and I walk towards it, and live thus, climbing up
in a steep dark forest towards a point where a light is divined,
a light that cannot deceive me, but which the obtruding branches
of a complicated and apparent life hide from me. That which
will bring me nearer it is not arguing about the probable nature
of the light, but walking; I mean, fortifying in myself and
others a will for the Good.
We have on one side undecided and lukewarm allies, on the
other adversaries; and we are forced necessarily to combat. This
necessity will become clearer each day ; . . . it is the (< antag-
onism of negatives and positives — of those who tend to destroy
4602 PAUL DESJARDINS
and those who tend to reconstruct. B . . . There is no ques-
tion here, be it understood, of knowing whether we are deceiving
ourselves in choosing such or such a particular duty; that I
would concede without trouble, having always estimated that our
moral judgments, like our acts, have need of ceaseless revision
and amelioration, according to an endless progression. There is
a question of much more; of knowing in an absolute manner
whether there be a duty for us or not. . . . Good is in fact
that which ought to be. Like Christ, who according to St. Paul
is not a Yes and a No, but a Yes, duty is a Yes; to slip into it
the shadow of a possibility of a No is to destroy it. ...
The men of to-day are thus negatives or positives, as they
range themselves under one opinion or the other. And they
must range themselves under one -of the two. They cannot
escape. The question which divides us, to know whether we
live in vain, imposes itself upon every one who opens his lips or
moves his finger, upon every conscious being who breathes.
That So-and-so never speaks of it, never thinks of it, may be;
but their lives answer for them and testify loudly enough. I
confess that at first sight the negatives seem for the moment
the more numerous. They include many groups, which I shall
not enumerate here. I range with them the charming uncertain
ones, like M. Renan and his melodious disciples, the sombre and
nihilistic Buddhists; all those to whom the law of the completion
of man through the good is indeed foolish and chimerical, since
their lives imply the negation of it: I mean to say the immense
multitude of those who live in any kind of way, good easy
people, refined possibly, from caprice, coquetry or laziness, but in
complete moral anaesthesia.
Now we come to the positives. They include first of all, true
Christians, and all true Jews, attached to the profound spirit of
their religion; then the philosophers and poets who affirm or
sing the moral ideal, the new disciples of Plato, the Stoics, the
Kantians, famous or unknown, to whom life alone, outside of all
speculation, is a solid affirmation of the possibility and sufficiency
of the good. That the actions of these men and women, on the way
to creating themselves free beings, human beings, have the same
value as doctrine, cannot be denied. They labor and suffer here
and there, each one in his own cell; each one making his own
goodness consist in the realization of what he believes to be the
absolute good; making themselves faithful servants of something;
PAUL DESJARDINS
existing outside of themselves; the city, religion, charity, justice,
truth even, or beauty, conceived as modes of adoration. . . .
All these compose, it seems to me, one and the same Church,
having the philosophers and poets of duty for doctors of divinity,
the heroes of duty for congregation. These may be called by
the general name of "Positives."
Let our eyes be opened: everything that surrounds us is
vitiated; many of the children playing on the promenades are
sickly, their little faces are often enough marked with livid
blotches, their bones are often enough twisted, sad symptoms of
the degradation of parents. At every street corner are distrib-
uted libertine productions by traders in the depravity of the
weak. If any one wishes to recognize the furnace of vice
burning within us, let him observe merely the looks cast upon
an honest woman as she passes, by respectable men, old men.
What savage expressions intercepted under the feverish light of
the electric lamps! What tension, what spasms of covetousness !
What hallucinations of pleasure and of gold! Tragic matter
here, but low tragedies a la Balzac, not those acted under an
open sky by heroes. A few pistol-shots from time to time, a few
poisonings, some drownings: that is all that transpires of the
interior evil. The rest passes away in suppressed tears, brooding
hatreds, in accepted shame. In such confusion the consciences
of the best, of the most disinterested ones, lose the cleanness of
their stamp. (< You are smiling there at an obscenity, w said I to
a friend; he protested; then reflecting, agreed with me, quite
astonished that he had not perceived it. Honest men are trou-
bled by all this circumjacent corruption. And rightly so, for at
the bottom they are parts of it; they are distinguished from it
only by more cleanliness, education, elegance, but not by prin-
ciple.
In fact, from top to bottom, all this society lives on sensation;
that is the common trait through it all, and it is graded accord-
ing to the quality of its sensations. . . . Fundamentally there
is only sensation, with here and there unequally subtle nerves.
There are no terms less reconcilable one to another than research
of sensation and moral obligation. There is nothing more op-
posed. Therefore he who expects all from his sensations depends
absolutely on externals, upon the fortuitous things of life, in all
their incoherence; he is no longer a self-centre, he feels himself
no longer responsible, his personality is dissolved, evaporated; it
4604 PAUL DESJARDINS
does not react, and ambient nature already absorbs him, like some
dead thing.
And this is where we are. I recognize then the evil; I see
it in its extent. Nevertheless, to paint this lamentable picture
once more is not to show our moral ideas. Our moral idea is
what we believe touching the life which shall be best; it is not
exactly our life.
Ever since the antique Medea of Ovid uttered that cry, many
others, one after another, have groaned over the fact that, seeing
the best and approving it, they yet follow the worst — alas!
Such a sorrow is to-day profound and universal; there where
vice abounds, sorrow superabounds. It is no longer that melan-
choly born of the insufficiency of external reality, once for all
recognized, that felt by Obermann and proud romanticists; but a
humble, narrow, ragged rancor, mixed with disdain, with dis-
gust, born of our insufficiency to ourselves, perceived thoroughly.
Never, I believe, have we been more generally sad than in these
times. And it is that which saves us; I find here our greatness.
He alone is lost who feels himself at ease and healthful in evil;
consciences without anxiety are the only hopeless ones. Let us
hope then, for it cannot be denied that we feel we are very ill.
It is apparent that we are in labor with something which shall
be our cure. The symptoms of this painful labor are not lack-
ing. The works which are appearing now, pre-eminent in form,
but obscure and hesitating in principles, bear signs of the stress
in which they were conceived; soon they will seem merely spe-
cious. In the poetry, romance, painting, music, of to-day, how
many exquisite works are born, not of energy guided by love,
but only of a dream of energy, a dream of love, on the shores
of inconsolable exile! The truth is, we no longer know what to
become; when any one of the antique misfortunes strikes us, —
death, abandonment, ruin, — we no longer bear it as our fathers
did. We no longer know the dignified, peaceful mournings of
old; but under an unexpected stroke, the torment, the compli-
cated rending in the heart, show that it has been secretly under-
mined. We feel indeed divided within ourselves, and we need
to be unified; but the inward unification is possible only for the
absolutely debauched or the absolutely good man; there is no
via media; half -virtue rends us. ...
PAUL DESJARDINS
Our spiritual life being in truth miracle and mystery, I do
not know how to explain what each one knows so well; I do not
know how there is developed within us that sublime state known
and described under different names by Socrates, Plato, Plotinus,
Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, St. Paul, St. Augustine, Tauler, the
author of the 'Imitation,* Shelley, Emerson, Tolstoy: but I
know that such a state, which we all know by experience, merits
alone the name of positive morality. . . . Well then, history
shows that what is true of each one of us personally, is true of
society.
THE CONVERSION OF THE CHURCH
WHILE a purer spirit is visibly awakening in ailing humanity
and turning it again to Christ, the religion of Christ is
rejuvenating. His church is no longer motionless. Thus,
in the midst of a great confusion, two religious movements
which correspond with one another are defining themselves with
sufficient clearness.
On the one side, men without any precise faith, and who
thought themselves without any faith, have perceived that they
carry within themselves that which they sought: an explanation
of themselves, say a principle of salvation. At whatever point
these thinking men arrive, it is apparent at the present that
they are progressing in the way of the Evangel, and following
the path of the cross. . . . On the other side, the Roman
Catholic Church, governed by a vigilant Pope, has declared
herself. She has spoken of love, at the moment when all were
thirsty for love and self -f orgetf ulness ; she intercedes for the suf-
fering masses, at the moment when others were going to do it
outside of her, perhaps against her. And more, she is resolutely
to-day accenting spirituality, after having so long accented ritual
or policy. The new spiritualists and the renewed Christians are
thus pushed forward to a meeting with one another by the need
of their practical co-operation, and also perhaps by the conscious-
ness of their intimate kinship. They are marching from both
sides, with the same rallying cry, Fraternity and sacrifice! Here
they are flying from the city of the plain, where a material civ-
ilization reigns, and claiming to suffice all; they are emigrating,
they know not whither, if it be only towards the heights; there
4606 PAUL DESJARDINS
they are descending from their high, narrow, clerical, shut-in
fastness.
The conversion that the Church should make is a conversion
of the heart. It must become again a school of true liberty and
love. Herein lies all the anxiety of the moment; and the great
Catholic question lies not between the Church and the Republic,
but between the Church and the People, or rather between the
Church and the pure Spirit. By loving the people in truth, and
by making itself the people, it is clear that the Catholic Church
would simply be returning to its original source. Now, returning
to its original source is, in a word, all that the Church should
do; and that which, following her example, all old institutions
should do so as to live and to make us live. To last, means to
be re-born perpetually. In truth, each one of these institutions
was born in former times, from a definite need of the soul. And
at first they responded exactly to it, and that is why they pre-
vailed; all their strength came from the fact that they were
necessary; their weakness comes from the fact that they are no
longer so. At first the religious community was formed of the
imperious necessity of a deliverance from evil; it was not for
ornament, not for the charm of burning incense under arches;
. . . neither was it formed to do what kings, warriors, and
judges are sufficient to do; these last would have absorbed it,
but they cannot, — although they try to do so every day; but
they can never do so, unless the Church abandons her own func-
tions to usurp theirs. She would then, by forgetting her desti-
nation, commit suicide. But even then, another church would
form in response to the spiritual hunger and thirst which never
ceases. Thus the whole problem of the existence of an institu-
tion is to remain forever necessary, and therefore faithful to its
original source.
Let us add that civil society cannot maintain itself without
also constant rejuvenation, — becoming young again; it also exists
only by the active consent of willing minds. It is essential for
the harmony of the whole that each person should be an indi-
vidual and not an automaton. As men, divided by the external
accidents of habit, condition, fortune, and united by that which is
fundamental within them, the weakening of that which is within
them disintegrates them; and thence the principal cause of our
divisions comes from hardly any one to-day being in his heart
that which he appears to be. Therefore, to bring back diverse
PAUL DESJARDINS
conditions to their original source and to the reason of their
being, to re-establish the principle in the centre of the life of
each, is to do the work of unification. To say to the priests,
" Be primitive Christians, imitate the chosen Master, M is, socially
speaking, a good action which all Christians and non-Christians
should applaud, for the salvation of all depends upon it. The
remedy of our malady, without doubt, lies not in having all
France to mass, but first that all should make their faith the
rule of their actions. That which lies at the bottom of our con-
sciences is the thing by which we are brothers.
TWO IMPRESSIONS
From < Notes Contemporaines >
Two impressions have remained with me. They date from a
month's wandering in Switzerland, at a time when there are
no tourists to be met. The first is of the exquisite scenes of
wintry Nature, as she shows herself at this season, when none
come to visit her — still, reposeful, silent, veiled — how much more
touching and impressive than when profaned by the summer
crowd! This is the moment when the Jura should be seen! The
pine woods on the hills are but faintly powdered with snow, and
the patches of dry rusty vegetation beneath lie on the gray stones
like the broad red stains of blood. Seeds hang here and there on
the bare branches, mixed with the tendrils of the wild vine, or
with ghostly clusters of what were the flowers of the clematis.
The falling leaves are golden; those already fallen are of an
ashen gray. The delicate tracery overhead is of infinite com-
plexity, exquisite in its endless detail; and the whole of this
disrobed Nature, in its unadorned simplicity, has an impress of
sincerity that reminds you of the drawings of Holbein. Flat
pools of shallow water lie about, carpeted with mosses and mir-
roring the sky; the smoke of the huts rises upward gaunt and
straight. No one is near; there are no passers-by; and there is
no sound, except that of a waterfall, fuller in its rush than at
any other season. Silence — a silence so fragile that the step of
a single wayfarer on the road would be enough to break it —
reigns undisturbed, and covers everything like a winding-sheet.
My second impression is of another kind, though almost as
comforting, at least by the contrast; it was given me by the con-
versation of the peasant folk, plain humble mountaineers. The
PAUL DESJARDINS
speech and thought of these men is plain and direct, devoid of
artifice, clear and fathomable; they furnish you an unvarnished
tale of their own simple experience — the life experience of a
man, no more! They neither invent nor disguise, and are totally
incapable of presenting either fact or circumstances in a way that
shall suggest to the hearer another or a different sense. Our
woeful habit of ridiculing what lies indeed at the bottom of our
hearts they have never learned; they copy, line by line and
stroke by stroke, the meaning that is in them, the intentions of
their inner mind. In our Parisian haunts, it seems to me that
their success would be a problem; but they are heedless of
<( success w ; and to us, when we escape from our vitiated centres,
from an atmosphere poisoned by that perpetual straining after
effect, the pure undressed simplicity of these (< primitives w is as
refreshing as to our over-excited and exhaiisted nerves are the
green, quiet, hidden nooks of their Alpine solitudes. With them
there is no need of imaginative expression ; the trouble of
thought is useless; their words are the transparent revelation of
their beliefs. The calm brought to the hyper-civilized spirit by
this plainness and directness of Nature is absolutely indescribable;
and when I came to reflect on the profoundness of mental
quietude — I might say of consolation — that I had attained to
during my wanderings, I could not help recognizing what a cruel,
fatal part is played in the lives of all of us by irony. It is, with
Frenchmen, a kind of veneer, worn even by the most unpreten-
tious in place of whatever may be real in them ; and where this
outward seeming is absent, they are completely at a loss.
Well-bred Frenchmen rarely if ever have or pronounce an
opinion, or pass a judgment — unless with a playful obliquity of
judgment, and on things in general. They assume an air of
knowing what they are talking about, and of having probed the
vanity of all human effort before they have ever attempted or
approached it; and even this indifference, this disdain, this appar-
ent dislike to the responsibility of so much as an opinion, — even
this is not natural, not innate; its formula is not of its own cre-
ation; it is but the repetition of what was originated by some
one else. The truth is, that in our atmosphere all affirmative
action is difficult; it is hard either to be or to do. This habit of
irony has destroyed all healthful activity here. It is a mere
instrument of evil; if you grasp it, it turns to mischief in your
hands, and either slips from and eludes them, or wounds you, as
often as not, mortally.
4609
SIR AUBREY DE VERE
(1788-1846)
|T CURRAGH CHASE, in the picturesque county of Limerick, Ire-
land, Aubrey Hunt was born in 1788. On the death of his
father he succeeded to the baronetcy and took the name
of De Vere. Though his deep love of nature prompted him while
very young to write descriptive verses, it was the drama that first
seriously attracted him. This form he chose for his first painstaking
work, < Julian the Apostate.* The play opens at the time when
Julian, having renounced the faith of his household oppressors, is
allowed as a pagan worshiper to participate
in the Eleusinian mysteries; when, it is
said, he consented to the assassination of
his uncle the Emperor Constantius. It
found an admiring and enthusiastic audi-
ence and received unstinted praise from the
critics. One wrote, (<Lord Byron has pro-
duced nothing equal to it;* and another,
"Scott has nothing so intellectual or so ele-
vated among his exquisite sketches.*
<Mary Tudor, * a drama written two
years before his death in 1846, is his <(most
considerable work,* says his son, and (<an
expression of his sympathy with great qual-
ities obscured by great errors and great calamities.* The sonnet
was however the form of composition he preferred, and as a son-
neteer he will be remembered. His sonnets are mainly historical,
though he wrote also some religious and descriptive ones which
Wordsworth considered "the most perfect of our age.* His earlier
ones, modeled after those of Petrarch and Filicaja, are inferior in
imagery, phraseology, and nobility of thought to those produced
under the influence of Wordsworth, a poet whose genius De Vere was
among the first to acknowledge, and whose friendship he regarded
as one of the chief honors of his life.
Like his friend, De Vere was a patriot, and in his historical son-
nets he has recorded his love for the land of his remoter ancestors,
whereas in the < Lamentations of Ireland * he has expressed with
great ardor his love for the land of his birth. In 1842 he published
(The Song of Faith, } which with the exception of a few translations
was all he gave the world in twenty years. Devoted to his occu-
pations as a country gentleman, and being of a singularly modest
vin — 289
SIR AUBREY DE VERE
4610
SIR AUBREY DE VERE
disposition, he neither loved nor courted fame, nor found in it any
incentive to action.
Sir Aubrey De Vere was not in the modern acceptance of the
term a national poet, nor was he, as so many of his contemporaries,
anti-Irish. He modeled his poems on the great English writers, but
all he wrote is pervaded with a deep sympathy for Ireland, and that
at a time when such sympathy was rare.
THE CRUSADERS
THE flattering crowd wreathe laurels for the brow
Of blood-stained chief or regal conqueror;
To Caesar or the Macedonian bow;
Meteors of earth that set to rise no more:
A hero-worship, as of old ? Not now
Should chieftain bend with servile reverence o'er
The fading pageantry of Paynim lore.
True heroes they whose consecrated vow
Led them to Jewry, fighting for the Cross;
While not by Avarice lured, or lust of power
Inspired, they combated that Christ should reign,
And life laid down for him counted no loss.
On Dorylaeum's plain, by Antioch's tower,
And Ascalon, sleep well the martyred slain.
THE CHILDREN BAND
From ( The Crusaders >
ALL holy influences dwell within
The breast of childhood; instincts fresh from God
Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod
Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin.
How mighty was this fervor which could win
Its way to infant souls! — and was the sod
Of Palestine by infant Croises trod ?
Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin,
In all their touching beauty to redeem ?
And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre ?
Alas! the lovely pageant, as a dream,
Faded! They sank not through ignoble fear;
They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain stream,
In sands, in fens, they died — no mother near!
SIR AUBREY DE VKKE
THE ROCK OF CASH EL
4611
ROYAL and saintly Cashel! I would gaze
Upon the wreck of thy departed powers
Not in the dewy light of matin hours,
Nor in the meridian pomp of summer blaze,
But at the close of dim autumnal days,
When the sun's parting glance, through slanting showers,
Sheds o'er thy rock-throned battlements and towers
Such awful gleams as brighten o'er decay's
Prophetic cheek. At such a time, methinks,
There breathes from thy lone courts and voiceless aisles
A melancholy moral; such as sinks
On the lone traveler's heart amid the piles
Of vast Persepolis on her mountain stand,
Or Thebes half buried in the desert sand.
THE RIGHT USE OF PRAYER
THEREFORE when thou wouldst pray, or dost thine alms,
Blow not a trump before thee; hypocrites
Do thus, vaingloriously ; the common streets
Boast of their largess, echoing their psalms.
On such the laud of man, like unctuous balms,
Falls with sweet savor. Impious counterfeits !
Prating of heaven, for earth their bosom beats!
Grasping at weeds, they lose immortal palms!
God needs not iteration nor vain cries:
That man communion with his God might share
Below, Christ gave the ordinance of prayer:
Vague ambages and witless ecstasies
Avail not: ere a voice to prayer be given,
The heart should rise on wings of love to heaven.
A
THE CHURCH
Y, WISELY do we call her Mother — she
Who from her liberal breath breathes sustenance
To nations; a majestic charity!
No marble symbol cold, in suppliant glance
Deceitful smiling; strenuous her advance,
4612 SIR AUBREY DE VERE
Yet calm; while holy ardors, fancy-free,
Direct her measured steps: in every chance
Sedate — as Una 'neath the forest tree
Encompassed by the lions. Why, alas!
Must her perverse and thoughtless children turn
From her example ? Why must the sulky breath
Of Bigotry stain Charity's pure glass?
Poison the springs of Art and Science — burn
The brain through life, and sear the heart in death ?
SONNET
SAD is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing
In currents unperceived, because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing —
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing —
And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet;
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
A nearer good to cure an older ill;
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them
Not for their sake, but His who grants them, or denies them!
4613
VERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO, one of the chief chroniclers of the
conquest of Mexico by the Spaniards, was born at Medina
del Campo in Old Castile, about the year 1498. Concerning
the date of his death, authorities differ widely. He died in Guate-
mala, perhaps not long after 1570, but some say not until 1593.
Of humble origin, he determined while still a youth to seek his
fortune in the New World. In 1514 he went with Pedrarias to Darien
and Cuba. He was a common soldier with Cordoba in the first expe-
dition to Yucatan in 1517. He accompanied Grijalva to Mexico in
the following year, and finally enlisted under the banner of Cortes.
In every event that marked the career of that brilliant commander
in Mexico, Diaz had a part; he was engaged in one hundred and nine-
teen battles, and was present at the siege and surrender of the cap-
ital in 1521. Of unswerving loyalty and bravery, according to his own
naive statement, he was frequently appointed by Cortes to highly
important missions. When Cortes set out to subdue the defection
under Cristoval de Olid at Honduras, Diaz followed his old chief in
the terrible journey through the forests and swamps.
On his return he presumably adopted the life of a planter,
although he had complained loudly of the meagre allotment of land
and laborers which the conqueror gave him. In 1 568, however, after
the lapse of half a century, when Cortes had been dead twenty-one
years, we find the veteran comfortably established as regidor (a civic
officer) of the city of Guatemala, and busily engaged on the narra-
tive of the heroic deeds of his youth. In his introduction to the
* Historia * Diaz frankly admits that his principal motive in taking
up his pen was to vindicate the valor of himself and others, who
had been completely overshadowed by the exaggerated reputation of
Cortes.
When fairly started, he happened to run across the ( Cronica de la
Nueva Espana* (Saragossa, 1554) of Gomara, secretary and chaplain
to Cortes, 1540-47. At first the rough old soldier threw down his
pen in despair, on noting the polished style of the scholar ; but when
he became aware of the gross inaccuracies of his predecessor, who
had never even set foot in America, he determined, so he declares,
to write above all things a faithful narrative of the stirring events
in which he had participated. Thus was completed his Historia
4614
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
Verdadera de la Conquista de la Nueva Espana. J For some reason
this valuable manuscript lay neglected in a private library for about
sixty years. Finally it fell into the hands of Father Alonso Remor,
a sagacious priest, who published it at Madrid in 1632.
The narrative of this soldier historian, although clumsy, full of
digressions and repetitions, and laying bare his ignorance, simplicity,
and vanity, will nevertheless always be read with far more interest
than the weightier works of Las Casas, Gomara, or Herrera. Pres-
cott explained the secret of its fascination when he said : —
«Bernal Diaz, the untutored child of nature, is a most true and literal
copyist of nature. He transfers the scenes of real life by a sort of daguerreo-
type process, if I may so say, to his pages. He is among chroniclers what
Defoe is among novelists. . . . All the picturesque scenes and romantic
incidents of the campaign are reflected in his pages as in a mirror. The
lapse of fifty years has had no power over the spirit of the veteran. The fire
of youth glows in every line of his rude history, and as he calls up the scenes
of the past, the remembrance of the brave companions who are gone gives, it
may be, a warmer coloring to the picture than if it had been made at an
earlier period. w
A fairly good English translation of the work of Bernal Diaz ap-
peared in London in 1 800, under the title of ( True History of the
Conquest of Mexico.*
FROM THE <TRUE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO >
Translation of Maurice Keatinge: London, 1800
THE CAPTURE OF GUATIMOTZIN
SANDOVAL at this moment made a signal for the flotilla to close
up to him, and perceived that Guatimotzin was prisoner to
Holguin, who was taking him to Cortes. Upon this he
ordered his rowers to exert their utmost to bring him up to Hol-
guin's vessel, and having arrived by the side of it, he demanded
Guatimotzin to be delivered to him as general of the whole force;
but Holguin refused, alleging that he had no claim whatever.
A vessel which went to carry the intelligence of the great
event, brought also to Cortes, who was then on the summit of the
great temple in the Taltelulco, very near the part of the lake
where Guatimotzin was captured, an account of the dispute be-
tween his officers. Cortes immediately dispatched Luis Marin and
Francisco de Lugo to bring the whole party together to his quar-
ters, and thus to stop all litigation; but he enjoined them not to
omit treating Guatimotzin and his queen with the greatest respect.
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO 4£,5
During the interval he employed himself in arranging a state, as
well as he could, with cloths and mantles. He also prepared a
table with refreshments, to receive his prisoners. As soon as
they appeared he went forward to meet them, and embracing
Guatimotzin, treated him and all his attendants with every mark
of respect.
The unfortunate monarch, with tears in his eyes, and sinking
under affliction, then addressed him in the following words: —
* Malintzin ! I have done that which was my duty in the defense
of my kingdom and people; my efforts have failed, and being
now brought by force a prisoner in your hands, draw that pon-
iard from your side and stab me to the heart. M
Cortes embraced and used every expression to comfort him, by
assurances that he held him in high estimation for the valor and
firmness he had shown, and that he had required a submission
from him and the people at the time that they could no longer
reasonably hope for success, in order to prevent further destruc-
tion; but that was all past, and no more to be thought of it; he
should continue to reign over the people as he had done before.
Cort6s then inquired after his queen, to which Guatimotzin re-
plied that in consequence of the compliance of Sandoval with his
request, she and her women remained in the piraguas until Cortes
should decide as to their fate. The general then caused them to
be sent for, and treated them in the best manner his situation
afforded. The evening was drawing on, and it appeared likely
to rain; he therefore sent the whole royal family to Cuyoacan,
under the care of Sandoval. The rest of the troops then returned
to their former quarters; we to ours of Tacuba, and Cortes, pro-
ceeding to Cuyoacan, took the command there, sending Sandoval
to resume his station at Tepeaquilla. Thus was the siege of
Mexico brought to a conclusion by the capture of Guatimotzin
and his chiefs, on the thirteenth of August, at the hour of ves-
pers, being the day of St. Hyppolitus, in the year of our Lord
one thousand five hundred and twenty-one. Glorified by our Lord
Jesus Christ, and Our Lady the Holy Virgin Mary his blessed
mother, Amen!
Guatimotzin was of a noble appearance both in person and
countenance; his features were rather large and cheerful, with
lively eyes. His age was about twenty-three or four years, and
his complexion very fair for an Indian. His queen, the niece of
Montezuma, was young and very handsome.
4616 BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
WHAT I am going to mention is truth, and I swear and say
amen to it. I have read of the destruction of Jerusalem, but I
cannot conceive that the mortality there exceeded this of Mex-
ico; for all the people from the distant provinces which belonged
to this empire had concentrated themselves here, where they
mostly died. The streets, the squares, the houses, and the courts
of the Taltelulco were covered with dead bodies; we could not
step without treading on them; the lake and canals were filled
with them, and the stench was intolerable. For this reason, our
troops, immediately after the capture of the royal family, retired
to their former quarters. Corte*s himself was for some time ill
from the effect of it.
CORTES
I WILL now proceed to describe the person and disposition of
the Marquis [Corte*s]. He was of good stature and strongly built,
of a rather pale complexion and serious countenance. His feat-
ures were, if faulty, rather too small; his eyes mild and grave.
His beard was black, thin, and scanty; his hair in the same
manner. His breast and shoulders were broad, and his body
very thin. He was very well limbed, and his legs rather bowed;
an excellent horseman, and dexterous in the use of arms. He
also possessed the heart and mind which is the principal part of
the business. I have heard that when he was a lad in Hispan-
iola he was very wild about women, and that he had several
duels with able swordsmen, in which he always came off with
victory. He had the scar of a sword wound near his under lip,
which appeared through his beard if closely examined, and which
he received in some of those affairs. In his appearance, man-
ners, transactions, conversation, table, and dress, everything bore
the appearance of a great lord. His clothes were according to
the fashion of the time; he was not fond of silks, damasks, or
velvets, but everything plain, and very handsome; nor did he
wear large chains of gold, but a small one of fine workmanship
bearing the image of Our Lady the Blessed Virgin with her
precious Son in her arms, and a Latin motto; and on the reverse,
St. John the Baptist with another motto. He wore on his finger
a ring with a very fine diamond, and in his cap, which according
to the fashion of that day was of velvet, he bore a medal, the
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
4617
head and motto of which I do not recollect ; but latterly he wore
a plain cloth cap without any ornament.
His table was always magnificently attended and served, with
four major-domos or principal officers, a number of pages, and a
great quantity of plate, both gold and silver. He dined heartily
at midday, and drank a glass of wine mixed with water, of about
half a pint. He was not nice in his food, nor expensive, except
on particular occasions where he saw the propriety of it. He
was very affable with all his captains and soldiers, especially
those who accompanied him in his first expedition from Cuba.
He was a Latinist, and as I have been told, a bachelor of laws.
He was also something of a poet, and a very good rhetorician;
very devout to Our Holy Virgin and to St. Peter, St. Jago, and
St. John the Baptist, and charitable to the poor. When he swore
he used to say, w By my conscience ! w and when he was angry
with any of us his friends, he would say, (< Oh ! may you repent
it." When he was very angry, the veins in his throat and fore-
head used to swell, and when in great wrath he would not utter
a syllable to any one. He was very patient under insults or
injuries; for some of the soldiers were at times very rude and
abusive to him; but he never resented their conduct, although he
had often great reason to do so. In such cases he used only to
say <( Be silent ! w or w Go away, in God's name, and take care not
to repeat this conduct or I will have you punished. " He was very
determined and headstrong in all business of war, not attending
to any remonstrances on account of danger; an instance of
which he showed in the attack of those fortresses called the
Rocks of the Marquis, which he forced us to scale, contrary
to our opinions, and when neither courage, council, nor wisdom
could give any rational hope of success.
Where we had to erect a fortress, Corte*s was the hardest
laborer in the trenches; when we were going into battle, he was
as forward as any.
Cortes was very fond of play, both at cards and dice, and
while playing he was very affable and good-humored. He used
frequently at such times those cant expressions which are cus-
tomary amongst persons who game. In military service he prac-
ticed the most strict attention to discipline, constantly going the
rounds in person during the night, visiting the quarters of the
soldiers and severely reprehending those whom he found with-
out their armor and appointments and not ready to turn out;
4618 BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
repeating to them the proverb that (< It is a bad sheep which
cannot carry its own wool."
On our expedition to Higueras I perceived that he had ac-
quired a habit which I had never before observed in him, and it
was this: after eating, if he did not get his siesta or sleep, his
stomach was affected and he fell sick. For this reason, when
on the journey, let the rain be ever so heavy or the sun ever
so hot, he always reposed for a short time after his repast, a
carpet or cloak being spread under a tree, on which he lay down;
and having slept a short time, he mounted his horse and pro-
ceeded on his journey. When we were engaged in the wars
during the conquest of New Spain, he was very thin and slen-
der; but after his return from Higueras he grew fat, and acquired
a belly. He at this time trimmed his beard, which had now
begun to grow white, in the short fashion. In his early life he
was very liberal, but grew close latterly, some of his servants
complaining that he did not pay them as he ought; and I have
also to observe that in his latter undertakings he never succeeded.
Perhaps such was the will of Heaven, his reward being reserved
for another place; for he was a good cavalier, and very devout
to the Holy Virgin, and also to St. Paul and other Holy Saints.
God pardon him his sins, and me mine; and give me a good
end, which is better than all conquests and victories over Indians.
OF DIVINE AID IN THE BATTLE OF SANTA MARIA DE LA VITORIA
IN HIS account of this action, Gomara says that previous to
the arrival of the main body of the cavalry under Cortes, Fran-
cisco de Morla appeared in the field upon a gray dappled horse,
and that it was one of the holy Apostles, St. Peter or St. Jago,
disguised under his person. I say that all our works and victories
are guided by the hand of our Lord Jesus Christ, and that in
this battle there were so many enemies to every one of us, that
they could have buried us under the dust they could have held
in their hands, but that the great mercy of God aided us through-
out. What Gomara asserts might be the case, and I, sinner as I
am, was not worthy to be permitted to see it. What I did see
was Francisco de Morla, riding in company with Cortes and the
rest upon a chestnut horse; and that circumstance and all the
others of that day appear to me, at this moment that I am
writing, as if actually passing in view of these sinful eyes. But
BERNAL DIAZ DEL CASTILLO
4619
although I, unworthy sinner that I am, was unfit to behold either
of those holy Apostles, upwards of four hundred of us were pres-
ent: let their testimony be taken. Let inquiry also be made how
it happened that when the town was founded on that spot, it was
not named after one or other of those holy Apostles, and called
St. Jago de la Vitoria, or St. Pedro de la Vitoria, as it was Santa
Maria, and a church erected and dedicated to one of those holy
saints. Very bad Christians were we indeed, according to the
account of Gomara, who, when God sent us his Apostles to fight
at our head, did not every day after acknowledge and return
thanks for so great a mercy! Would to heaven that it were so;
but until I read the chronicle of Gomara I never heard of it, nor
was it ever mentioned amongst the conquerors who were then
present.
CORTES DESTROYS CERTAIN IDOLS
THERE was on the island of Cozumel a temple, and some hid-
eous idols, to which all the Indians of the neighboring districts
used to go frequently in solemn procession. . . . Cortes sum-
moned all the caciques and chief persons to come to him, and as
well as he could, by signs and interpretations, explained to them
that the idols which they worshiped were not gods, but evil
things which would draw their souls down to hell, and that if
they wished to remain in a brotherly connection with us, they
must pull them down and place in their stead the crucifix of
our Lord, by whose assistance they would obtain good harvests
and the salvation of their souls; with many other good and holy
reasons, which he expressed very well. The priests and chiefs
replied that they worshiped these gods as their ancestors had
done, because they were kind to them; and that if we attempted
to molest them, the gods would convince us of their power by
destroying us in the sea. Cortes then ordered them to be pros-
trated, which we immediately did, rolling them down some steps.
He next sent for lime, of which there was abundance in the
place, and Indian masons, by whom under our direction a very
handsome altar was constructed, whereon we placed an image of
the Holy Virgin; and the carpenters having made a crucifix,
which was erected in a small chapel close to the altar, mass was
said by the Reverend Father Juan Diaz, and listened to by the
priests, chiefs, and the rest of the natives, with great attention.
4620
CHARLES DIBDIN
(1745-1814)
IHE saying, (<Let me make the songs of a nation and I care
not who makes its laws, w receives an interesting illustration
in the sea songs of Charles Dibdin. They were written at
a momentous period in English history. The splendid gallantry and
skill of England's sailors, and the genius of her naval commanders,
had made her mistress of the seas, and the key of all combinations
against the French Caesar. The sterling qualities of the British sea-
man are the inspiration of Dibdin 's songs.
Many of these were first given at Dib-
din's monodramatic entertainments at the
Sans Souci Theatre in London, or as parts
of his musical dramas. They appealed at
once to Englishmen, and were sung by
every ship's crew; they fired the national
spirit, and played so important a part in
the quickening of English patriotism that
the government, recognizing their stirring
force in animating the naval enthusiasm
during the Napoleonic wars, granted a pen-
sion of ^200 a year to the <( Ocean Bard of
England."
Charles Dibdin was born in 1745, in a
small village near the great seaport of Southampton. His love of
the salt air drew him often to the ocean's shores, where he saw the
ships of all lands pass and repass, and heard the merry sailors'
songs. And yet his own songs, upon which his title to a place in
literature rests, were incidental products of his active mind. He
was an actor, a dramatist, and a composer as well. He wrote some
thirty minor plays and the once popular operettas of ( The Shep-
herd's Artifice,* <The Padlock, > < The Quaker, > and <The Waterman.*
He wrote also a ( History of the Stage, } ( Musical Tour through
England, * and an autobiography which bore the title Professional
Life.* His two novels are now forgotten, but it is interesting to
recall that for the Stratford Jubilee in honor of Shakespeare, the
words of which were by Garrick, Dibdin composed the much admired
songs, dances, and serenades. He wrote more than thirteen hundred
songs, most of which had of course only a brief existence ; but there
CHARLES DIBDIN
CHARLES DIBDIN
were enough of them, burning with genuine lyric fire, to entitle him
to grateful remembrance among England's poets.
In all of these songs, whether the theme be his native land or the
wind-swept seas that close it round, love is the poet's real inspira-
tion; love of old England and her sovereign, love of the wealth-
bringing ocean, love of the good ship that sails its waves. This
fundamental affection for the things of which he sings has endeared
the songs of Dibdin to the heart of the British sailor; and in this
lies the proof of their genuineness. His songs are simple and me-
lodious; there is a manly ring in their word and rhythm; they have
the swagger and the fearlessness of the typical tar; they have, too,
the beat of his true heart, his kindly waggery, his sturdy fidelity to
his country and his king. There is nothing quite like them in any
other literature.
SEA SONG
I SAILED in the good ship the Kitty,
With a smart blowing gale and rough sea;
Left my Polly, the lads call so pretty,
Safe at her anchor. Yo, Yea!
She blubbered salt tears when we parted,
And cried (<Now be constant to me!"
I told her not to be down-hearted,
So up went the anchor. Yo, Yea!
And from that time, no worse nor no better,
I've thought on just nothing but she,
Nor could grog nor flip make me forget her, —
She's my best bower-anchor. Yo, Yea!
When the wind whistled larboard and starboard,
And the storm came on weather and lee,
The hope I with her should be harbored
Was my cable and anchor. Yo, Yea!
And yet, my boys, would you believe me ?
I returned with no rhino from sea;
Mistress Polly would never receive me,
So again I heav'd anchor. Yo, Yea!
4622
CHARLES DIBDIN
SONG: THE HEART OF A TAR
Y
ET though I've no fortune to offer,
I've something to put on a par;
Come, then, and accept of my proffer,-
'Tis the kind honest heart of a tar.
Ne'er let such a trifle as this is,
Girls, be to my pleasure a bar;
You'll be rich though 'tis only in kisses,
With the kind honest heart of a tar.
Besides, I am none of your ninnies;
The next time I come from afar,
I'll give you a lapful of guineas,
With the kind honest heart of a tar.
Your lords, with such fine baby faces,
That strut in a garter and star, —
Have they, under their tambour and laces.
The kind honest heart of a tar ?
POOR JACK
Go PATTER to lubbers and swabs, do you see,
'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ;
A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me,
And it ain't to a little I'll strike.
Though the tempest topgallant-mast smack smooth should
smite
And shiver each splinter of wood,
Clear the deck, stow the yards, and house everything tight,
And under reef foresail we'll scud :
Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft,
To be taken for trifles aback ;
For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!
I heard our good chaplain palaver one day
About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ;
And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay;
Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch ;
For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see,
Without orders that come down below ;
CHARLES DIBDIN 4623
And a many fine things that proved clearly to me oft
That Providence takes us in tow:
For, says he, do you mind me, let storms ne'er so oft
Take the topsails of sailors aback,
There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack!
I said to our Poll (for d'ye see, she would cry
When last we weighed anchor for sea),
What argufies sniveling and piping your eye ?
Why, what a young fool you must be!
Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all,
Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ?
And so if to old Davy I go, my dear Poll,
Why, you never will hear of me more.
What then? all's a hazard: come, don't be so soft;
Perhaps I may, laughing, come back;
For d'ye see ? there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
D'ye mind me ? a sailor should be every inch
All as one as a piece of the ship,
And with her brave the world, without offering to flinch,
From the moment the anchor's a-trip.
As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,
Naught's a trouble from duty that springs;
For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,
And as for my life, 'tis the King's.
Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft;
As for grief to be taken aback;
For the same little cherub that sits up aloft
Will look out a good berth for poor Jack.
TOM BOWLING
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For Death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,
His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,
But now he's gone aloft.
4624
CHARLES DIBDIN
Tom never from his word departed
His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he'd sing so blithe and Jolly;
Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He who all commands
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doffed;
For though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.
4625
CHARLES DICKENS
(1812-1870)
i HEN a great genius arises he makes his place in the world
and explains himself. Criticism does not make him and
cannot unmake him. He may have great defects and great
faults. By exposing them and dwelling upon them, the critics may
apparently nibble him all away. When the critics get through, how-
ever, he remains pretty much the force he was originally. For real
genius is a sort of elemental force that enters the human world, both
for good and evil, and leaves its lasting impression. It is like a new
river, of waters sweet and bitter, clear and muddy, bearing on its
bosom ships and wrecks, the lovely and the ugly, the incongruous
elements of human life and human contrivance. When it floods and
overflows, the critics run away; when it subsides the critics come
back and begin to analyze it, and say, wlt wasn't much of a shower."
Charles Dickens is to be judged, like any other genius, by what
he created, what he brought into the world. We are not called on to
say whether he was as great as Homer, as Shakespeare, as Cer-
vantes, as Fielding, as Manzoni, as Thackeray. He was always quite
himself, and followed no model, though thousands of writers have
attempted to follow him and acquire the title of being Dickens-y.
For over half a century he had the ear of the English-reading public
the world over. It laughed with him, it cried with him, it hungered
after him. Whatever he wrote, it must read; whenever he read, it
crowded to hear his masterly interpretations; when he acted, it was
delighted with his histrionic cleverness. In all these manifestations
there was the attraction of a most winning personality.
He invented a new kind of irresistible humor, he told stories that
went to the heart of humanity, he amused, he warmed, he cheered
the world. We almost think that modern Christmas was his inven-
tion, such an apostle was he of kindliness and brotherly love, of
sympathy with the poor and the struggling, of charity which is not
condescension. He made pictures of low life, and perhaps unreal
shadows of high life, and vivid scenes that lighted up great periods
of history. For producing effects and holding the reader he was a
wizard with his pen. And so the world hung on him, read him and
re-read him, recited him, declaimed him, put him into reading-books,
diffused him in common speech and in all literature. In all Eng-
lish literature his characters are familiar, stand for types, and need
no explanation. And now, having filled itself up with him, been
VIII — 2QO
4626
CHARLES DICKENS
saturated with him, made him in some ways as common as the air,
does the world tire of him, turn on him, say that it cannot read him
any more, that he is commonplace ? If so, the world has made him
commonplace. But the publishers' and booksellers' accounts show
no diminution in his popularity with the new generation.
At a dinner where Dickens was discussed, a gentleman won dis-
tinction by this sole contribution to the conversation : — <( There is no
evidence in Dickens's works that he ever read a book.w It is true
that Dickens drew most of his material from his own observation of
life, and from his fertile imagination, which was often fantastic. It
is true that he could not be called in the narrow sense a literary
writer, that he made no literary mosaic, and few allusions to the
literature of the world. Is it not probable that he had the art to
assimilate his material ? For it is impossible that any writer could
pour out such a great flood about the world and human nature with-
out refreshing his own mind at the great fountains of literature.
And when we turn to such a tale as ( The Tale of Two Cities, ) we
are conscious of the vast amount of reading and study he must have
done in order to give us such a true and vivid picture of the Revo-
lutionary period.
It has been said that Dickens did not write good English, that he
could not draw a lady or a gentleman, that he often makes ear-marks
and personal peculiarities stand for character, that he is sometimes
turgid when he would be impressive, sometimes stilted when he
would be fine, that his sentiment is often false and worked up, that
his attempts at tragedy are melodramatic, and that sometimes his
comedy comes near being farcical. His whole literary attitude has
been compared to his boyish fondness for striking apparel.
There is some truth in all these criticisms, though they do not
occur spontaneously to a fresh reader while he is under the spell of
Dickens, nor were they much brought forward when he was creating
a new school and setting a fashion for an admiring world. His
style, which is quite a part of this singular man, can easily be pulled
in pieces and condemned, and it is not a safe one to imitate. No
doubt he wrought for effects, for he was a magician, and used exag-
geration in high lights and low lights on his crowded canvas. Say
what you will of all these defects, of his lack of classic literary train-
ing, of his tendency to melodrama, of his tricks of style, even of a
ray of lime-light here and there, it remains that he is a great power,
a tremendous force in modern life; half an hour of him is worth a
lifetime of his self-conscious analyzers, and the world is a more
cheerful and sympathetic world because of the loving and lovable
presence in it of Charles Dickens.
A sketch of his life and writings, necessarily much condensed for
use here, has been furnished by Mr. Laurence Hutton.
. CHARLES DICKENS
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF DICKENS
BY LAURENCE HUTTON
CHARLES DICKKNS was born at Laudpurt in Portsea, on the 7th of
February, 1812. His childhood was a very unhappy one. He
describes himself in one of his essays as tta very queer, small
boy," and his biographer tells us that he was very sickly as well as
very small. He had little schooling, and numberless hard knocks,
and rough and toilsome was the first quarter of his journey through
life. Many of the passages in ( David Copperfield* are literally true
pictures of his own early experiences, and much of that work may
be accepted as autobiographical. He was fond of putting himself
and his own people into his books, and of drawing his scenes and
his characters from real life, sometimes only slightly disguised. Tra-
dition says that he built both Mr. Micawber and Mr. Turveydrop out
of his own father; that Mrs. Nickleby was based upon his own
mother ; and that his wife, who was the Dora of < Copperfield * in the
beginning of their married life, became in later years the Flora of
( Little Dorrit. > The elder Dickens had unquestionably some of the
traits ascribed to the unpractical friend of Copperfield's youth, and
something of the cruel self-indulgence and pompous deportment of
the dancing-master in { Bleak House. * And it was during his father's
imprisonment for debt when the son was but a youth, that Dickens
got his intimate knowledge of the Marshalsea, and of the heart-
breaking existence of its inmates. Some years before ( Copperfield *
was written, he described in a fragment of actual autobiography,
quoted by Forster, the following scene: —
(< My father was waiting for me in the lodge [of the Debtor's Prison] ; and
we went up to his room, on the top story but one, and cried very much.
And he told me, I remember, to take warning by the Marshalsea, and to
observe that if a man had twenty pounds a year, and spent nineteen pounds
nineteen shillings and sixpence, he would be happy ; but that a shilling spent
the other way would make him wretched. »
In these chambers Dickens afterwards put Mr. Dorrit. And while
the father remained in confinement, the son lived for a time in a
back attic in Lant Street, Borough, which was to become the home
of the eccentric Robert Sawyer, and the scene of a famous supper
party given to do honor to Mr. Pickwick wand the other chaps. w
M If a man wishes to abstract himself from the world, to remove
himself from the reach of temptation, to place himself beyond the
possibility of any inducement to look out of the window, he should
by all means go to Lant Street." Lant Street still exists, as Mr. Pick-
wick found it, and as Dickens knew it between 1822 and 1824. He
4628 CHARLES DICKENS
had numerous lodgings, alone and with his family, during those hard
times; all of them of the same miserable, wretched character; and it
is interesting to know that the original of Mrs. Pipchin was his land-
lady in Caniden Town, and that the original of the Marchioness
waited on the elder Dickens during his stay in the Marshalsea.
The story of the unhappy drudgery of the young Copperfield is
the story of the young Dickens without exaggeration.
<( No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sunk into this
companionship, w he wrote in 1845 or 1846, — « compared these every-day asso-
ciates with those of my happier childhood, and felt my early hopes of grow-
ing up to be a learned and distinguished man crushed in my breast. The
deep remembrance of the sense I had of being utterly neglected and hope-
less ; of the shame I felt in my position ; of the misery it was to my young
heart to believe that, day by day, what I had learned, and thought, and
delighted in, and raised my fancy and my emulation up by, was passing
away from me, never to be brought back any more, cannot be written. My
whole nature was so penetrated with the grief and humiliation of such con-
siderations, that even now, famous and caressed and happy, I often forget,
in my dreams, that I have a dear wife and children ; even that I am a man ;
and I wander desolately back to that time of my life.'*
In the course of a few years, happily, the cloud lifted; and in 1831,
when Dickens was a youth of nineteen, we find him beginning life as
a reporting journalist. He wrote occasional (< pieces M for the maga-
zines, and some faint hope of growing up to be a distinguished and
learned man rose again, no doubt, in his breast. N. P. Willis met
him one day in 1835, when, as Willis expresses it, Dickens was a
w paragraphist w for the London Morning Chronicle. The (<paragraph-
ist," according to Willis, was lodging in the most crowded part of
Holborn, in an uncarpeted and bleak-looking room, with a deal table,
two or three chairs, and a few books. It was up a long flight of
stairs, this room ; and its occupant <( was dressed very much as he has
since described Dick Swiveller — minus the swell look. His hair was
cropped close to his head, his clothes were scant, though jauntily cut ;
and after exchanging a ragged office coat for a shabby blue, he stood
by the door collarless and buttoned up, the very personification, I
thought, of a close sailer to the wind. . . . Not long after this
Macrone sent me the sheets of ( Sketches by Boz, > with a note saying
they were by the gentleman [Dickens] who went with us to Newgate.
I read the book with amazement at the genius displayed in it ; and
in my note of reply assured Macrone that I thought his fortune was
made, as a publisher, if he could monopolize the author. w This pic-
ture is very graphic. But it must be accepted with a grain of salt.
The ( Sketches by Boz, Illustrative of Every-Day Life and Every-
Day People,* Dickens's first printed book, appeared in 1835. A further
CHARLES DICKENS
4629
series of papers, bearing the same title, was published the next year.
* Boz M was the nickname he had bestowed upon his younger brother
Augustus, in honor of the Moses of the 'Vicar of Wakefield.' The
word, pronounced through the nose, became a Boses," afterwards
shortened to w Boz," which, said Dickens, wwas a very familiar house-
hold word to me long before I was an author. And so I came to
adopt it." The sketches, the character of which is explained in their
sub-title, were regarded as unusually clever things of their kind.
They attracted at once great attention in England, and established
the fact that a new star had risen in the firmament of British letters.
Dickens was married on the 2d of April, 1836, to Miss Catherine
Hogarth, just a week after he had published the first shilling number
of *The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club: Edited by Boz.'
The work appeared in book form the next year. Its success was phe-
nomenal, and it brought to its author not only fame but a fixed sum
per annum, which is better. It assured his comfort in the present and
in the future, and it wiped out all the care and troubles of his past.
It was in itself the result of an accident. Messrs. Chapman and Hall,
attracted by the popularity of the Sketches, proposed to their author
a series of monthly articles to illustrate certain pictures of a comic
character by Robert Seymour, an artist in their employment. Dickens
assented, upon the condition that wthe plates were to be so modified
that they would arise naturally out of the text." And so between
them Mr. Pickwick was born, although under the saddest of circum-
stances; for only a single number had appeared when Seymour died
by his own hand. Hablot K. Browne succeeded him, signing the name
of "Phiz"; and with "Boz" was (<Phiz" long associated in other
prosperous ventures. Mr. Pickwick is a benevolent, tender-hearted
elderly gentleman, who, as the president of a club organized (< for the
purpose of investigating the source of the Hampstead ponds," jour-
neys about England in all directions with three companions, to whom
he acts as guide, philosopher, and friend. He is an amiable old
goose, and his companions are equally verdant and unsophisticated;
but since 1837 they have been as famous as any men in fiction. The
story is a long one, the pages are crowded with incidents and with
characters. It is disconnected, often exaggerated, much of it is as
improbable as it is impossible, but it has made the world laugh for
sixty years now; and it still holds its own unique place in the hearts
of men.
From this period the pen of Dickens was never idle for forty-three
years. ( Pickwick * was succeeded by ( Oliver Twist, * begun in Bent-
ley's Magazine in January, 1837, and printed in book form in 1838.
It is the story of the progress of a parish boy, and it is sad and
serious in its character. The hero was born and brought up in a
4630
CHARLES DICKENS
workhouse. He was starved and ill-treated ; but he always retained
his innocence and his purity of mind. He fell among thieves, — Bill
and Nancy Sykes, Fagin and the Artful Dodger, to whom much pow-
erful description is devoted, — but he triumphed in the end. The life
of the very poor and of the very degraded among the people of Eng-
land during the latter end of the first half of the nineteenth century
is admirably portrayed; and for the first time in their existence the
British blackguards of both sexes were exhibited in fiction, clad in
all their instincts of low brutality, and without that glamour of
attractive romance which the earlier writers had given to Jack Shep-
pard, to Jonathan Wild, or to Moll Flanders.
Two dramatic compositions by Dickens, neither of them adding
very much to his reputation, appeared in 1836, to wit: — ( The Stran-
ger Gentleman, A Comic Burletta in Three Acts ) ; and ( The Village
Coquette, * a comic opera in two acts. They were presented upon
the stage towards the close of that year, with fair success.
In 1838 Dickens edited the Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi, a cele-
brated clown. His share in the composition of this work was com-
paratively small, and consisted of a Preface, dated February of that
year. It was followed by ( Sketches of Young Gentlemen,* and by
(The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby,* both published in
1839. To this latter he signed his name, Charles Dickens, dropping
from that period the pseudonym of <<.Boz.)> The titular hero is the
son of a poor country gentleman. He makes his own way in the
world as the usher of a Yorkshire school, as an actor in a traveling
troupe, and as the clerk and finally the partner in a prosperous
mercantile house in London. Smike, his pupil; Crummies, his theat-
rical manager; Ninetta Crummies, the Infant Phenomenon of the
company, Newman Noggs, the clerk of his uncle Ralph Nickleby,
the Cheeryble Brothers, his employers, are among the most success-
ful and charming of Dickens's earlier creations. <( Mr. Squeers and
his school, * he says, « were faint and feeble pictures of an existing
reality, purposely subdued and kept down lest they should be deemed
impossible. w That such establishments ceased to exist in reality in
England after the appearance of ( Nickleby,* is proof enough of the
good his pictures did in this and in many other ways.
In 1840-1841 appeared ( Master Humphrey's Clock,* comprising the
two stories of ( The Old Curiosity Shop * and ( Barnaby Rudge,* which
were subsequently printed separately. The story of Little Nell, the
gentle, lovable inmate of the Curiosity Shop, is one of the most sad
and tender tales in fiction, and Dickens himself confessed that he
was almost heart-broken when she died. Her path was crossed by
Quilp, a cunning and malicious dwarf of hideous appearance, who
consumed hard-boiled eggs, shells and all, for his breakfast; ate his
CHARLES DICKENS
4631
prawns with their heads and their tails on, drank scalding hot tea.
and performed so many horrifying acts that one almost doubted that
he was human; and by Christopher Nubbles, a shock-headed, sham-
bling, awkward, devoted lad, the only element of cheerfulness that
ever came into her life. In* this book appear Richard Swiveller and
his Marchioness, Sampson and Sarah Brass and Mrs. Jarley, who to
be appreciated must be seen and known, as Dickens has drawn them,
at full length.
Barnaby Rudge was a half-witted lad, who, not knowing what he
did, joined the Gordon rioters — the scenes are laid in the "No
Popery " times of 1779 — because he was permitted to carry a flag
and to wear a blue ribbon. The history of that exciting period of
English semi-political, semi-religious excitement is graphically set
down. Prominent figures in the book are Grip the raven, whose cry
was (< I'm a devil, M <( Never say diew; and Miss Dolly Varden, the
blooming daughter of the Clerkenwell locksmith, who has given her
name to the modern feminine costume of the Watteauesque style.
The literary results of Dickens's first visit to the United States, in
1842, when he was thirty years of age, were ( American Notes, for
General Circulation ' ; published in that year, and containing portions
of * Martin Chuzzlewit,* which appeared in 1844. His observations in
the < Notes* upon the new country and its inhabitants gave great
offense to the American people, and were perhaps not in the best
taste. He saw the crude and ridiculous side of his hosts, he empha-
sized their faults, while he paid little attention to their virtues; and
his criticisms and strictures rankled in the sensitive American mind
for many years.
Martin Chuzzlewit, the hero of the novel bearing his name, spent
some time in the western half-settled portion of America, with Mark
Tapley, his light-hearted, optimistic friend and companion. The pic-
tures of the morals and the manners of the men and women with
whom the emigrants were brought into contact were anything but
flattering, and they served to widen the temporary breach between
Dickens and his many admirers in the United States. The English
scenes of ( Chuzzlewit * are very powerfully drawn. Tom and Ruth
Pinch, Pecksniff, Sarah Gamp, and Betsey Prig are among the lead-
ing characters in the work.
In 1843 appeared the Christmas Carol,1 the first and perhaps the
best of that series of tales of peace and good-will, with which, at
the Christmas time, the name of Dickens is so pleasantly and famil-
iarly associated. It was followed by (The Chimes' in 1844, by (The
Cricket on the Hearth* in 1845, by <The Haunted Man* in 1848, all
the work of Dickens himself; and by other productions written by
Dickens in collaboration with other men. Concerning these holiday
4632
CHARLES DICKENS
stories, some unknown writer said in the public press at the time of
Dickens's death: — (< He has not only pleased us — he has softened the
hearts of a whole generation. He made charity fashionable; he
awakened pity in the hearts of sixty millions of people. He made a
whole generation keep Christmas with • acts of helpfulness to the
poor; and every barefooted boy and girl in the streets of England
and America to-day fares a little better, gets fewer cuffs and more
pudding, because Charles Dickens wrote. w
In 1846 he produced his ( Pictures from Italy )-, (The Battle of Life,
A Love Story, > and began in periodical form his ( Dealings with the
Firm of Dombey and Son, Wholesale, Retail, and for Exportation, y
published in book form in 1847. Here we have the pathetic story of
Little Paul, the tragic fate of Carker, the amusing episode of Jack
Bunsby with his designing widow, and the devotion of Susan Nipper,
Mr. Toots, Captain Cuttle, and Sol Gills to the gentle, patient, lov-
able Florence.
On the ( Personal History of David Copperfield, * published in 1850,
and of Dickens's share in its plot, something has already been said
here. It is perhaps the most popular of all his productions, con-
taining as it does Mr. Dick, the Peggottys, the Micawbers, the Keeps,
Betsey Trotwood, Steerforth, Tommy Traddles, Dora, Agnes, and
Little Em'ly, in all of whom the world has been so deeply interested
for so many years.
( A Child's History of England ) and ( Bleak House J saw the light
in 1853. The romance was written as a protest and a warning
against the law's delays, as exhibited in the Court of Chancery; and
it contains the tragedy of Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, and the
short but touching story of Poor Jo.
<Hard Times,* a tale in one volume, was printed in 1854. It
introduces the Gradgrind family.
4 Little Dorrit* appeared in 1857. In this book he returns to the
Debtor's Prison of Micawber and of his own father. Little Dorrit
herself was (<the child of the Marshalsea,^ in which she was born
and brought up; and the whole story is an appeal against the injus-
tice of depriving of personal liberty those who cannot pay their
bills, or meet their notes, however small. Its prominent characters
are the Clennams, mother and son, the Meagleses, Flintwinch, Sir
Decimus Tite Barnacle, Rigaud and Little Cavalletto.
( A Tale of Two Cities, y a remarkable departure for Dickens, and
unlike any of his other works, was the book of the year 1859. It is
conceded, even by those who are not counted among the admirers of
its author, to be a most vivid and correct picture of Paris during the
time of the Revolution, when the guillotine was the king of France.
Its central figure, Sydney Carton, one of the most heroic characters
CHARLES DICKENS
4633
in romance, gives his life to restore his friend to the girl whom they
both love.
< The Uncommercial Traveller,' a number of sketches and stories
originally published in his weekly journal All the Year Round, ap-
peared in 1860. They were supplemented in 1868 by another volume
bearing the same title, and containing eleven other papers collected
from the same periodical.
< Great Expectations,* 1861, like 'Copperfield,* is the story of a boy's
childhood told by the boy himself, but by a boy with feelings, sen-
timents, and experiences very different from those of the earlier
work. The plot is not altogether a cheerful one, but many of the
characters are original and charming; notably Joe Gargery, Jaggles,
Wemmick, the exceedingly eccentric Miss Havisham, and the very
amiable and simple Biddy.
Somebody's Luggage,* 1862; (Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings,* 1863,
<Mrs. Lirriper's Legacy,* 1864; Dr. Marigold's Prescription.* 1865,
<Mugby Junction,* 1866; and * No Thoroughfare,* 1867, — Christmas
stories, all of them, — were written by Dickens in collaboration with
other writers.
*Our Mutual Friend,* the last completed work of Dickens, was
printed in 1865. Mr. Boffin, the Golden Dustman with the great
heart, Silas Wegg, Mr. Venus, the Riderhoods, Jenny Wren, the
Podsnaps, the Veneerings, Betty Higden, Mrs. Wilfer, and the " Boo-
fer Lady,** are as fresh and as original as are any of his creations,
and show no trace of the coming disaster.
Before the completion of ( The Mystery of Edwin Drood * Dickens
died at his home, Gadshill Place, literally in harness, and without
warning, on the gth of June, 1870.
But six numbers of this last work appeared, in periodical form.
Its author left no notes of what was to follow, and the Mystery has
never been solved. Mr. Charles Collins, Dickens's son-in-law, however,
in a private letter to Mr. Augustin Daly of New York, who had pro-
posed to dramatize the tale, gave some general outline of the scheme
for ( Edwin Drood.* (<The titular character,** he said, <(was never to
reappear, he having been murdered by Jasper. The girl Rosa, not
having been really attached to Edwin, was not to lament his loss
very long, and was, I believe, to admit the sailor, Mr. Tartar, to
supply his place. It was intended that Jasper should urge on the
search after Edwin, and the pursuit of the murderer, thus endeavor-
ing to divert suspicion from himself, the real murderer. As to any-
thing further, it would be purely conjectural.**
Besides this immense amount of admirable work, Dickens founded,
conducted, and edited two successful periodicals, Household Words,
established in March t&$o, and followed by All the Year Round.
4634
CHARLES DICKENS
beginning in April 1859. To these he contributed many sketches and
stories. He began public readings in London in 1858; and con-
tinued them with great profit to himself, and with great satisfaction
to immense audiences, for upwards of twelve years. He appeared in
all the leading cities of Great Britain; and he was enormously popu-
lar as a reader in America during his second and last visit in 1868.
As an after-dinner and occasional speaker Dickens was rarely
equaled; and as an actor upon the amateur stage, in plays of his
own composition, he was inimitable.
Of his attempts at verse, (The Ivy Green ) is the only one that
is held in remembrance.
A strong argument in favor of what may be called <(the staying
qualities w of Dickens is the fact that his characters, even in a muti-
lated, unsatisfactory form, have held the stage for half a century or
more, and still have power to attract and move great audiences,
wherever is spoken the language in which he wrote. The dramatiza-
tion of the novel is universally and justly regarded as the most
ephemeral and worthless of dramatic production; and the novels of
Dickens, on account of their length, of the great number of figures
he introduces, of the variety and occasional exaggeration of his dia-
logues and his situations, have been peculiarly difficult of adaptation
to theatrical purposes. Nevertheless the world laughed and cried
over Micawber, Captain Cuttle, Dan'l Peggotty, and Caleb Plummer,
behind the footlights, years after Dolly Spanker, Aminadab Sleek,
Timothy Toodles, Alfred Evelyn, and Geoffrey Dalk, their contempo-
raries in the standard and legitimate drama, created solely and par-
ticularly for dramatic representation, were absolutely forgotten. And
Sir Henry Irving, sixty years after the production of ( Pickwick, J drew
great crowds to see his Alfred Jingle, while that picturesque and
ingenious swindler Robert Macaire, Jingle's once famous and familiar
confrere in plausible rascality, was never seen on the boards, except
as he was burlesqued and caricatured in comic opera.
It is pretty safe to say — and not in a Pickwickian sense — that
Pecksniff will live almost as long as hypocrisy lasts; that Heep will
not be forgotten while mock humility exists; that Mr. Dick will go
down to posterity arm-in-arm with Charles the First, whom he could
not avoid in his memorial ; that Barkis will be quoted until men cease
to be willin'. And so long as cheap, rough coats cover faith, charity,
and honest hearts, the world will remember that Captain Cuttle and
the Peggottys were so clad.
CHARLES DICKENS
THE ONE THING NEEDFUL
From <Hard Times >
« x Tow what I want is Facts. Teach these boys and girls
1 > nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant
nothing" else, and root out everything else. You can only
form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else
will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on
which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on
which I bring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!"
The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school-
room, and the speaker's square forefinger emphasized his observa-
tions by underscoring every sentence with a line on the school-
master's sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's
square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base,
while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two dark caves,
overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was helped by the
speaker's mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. The em-
phasis was helped by the speaker's voice, which was inflexible,
dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker's
hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of
firs to keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with
knobs, like the crust 'of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely
warehouse-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speaker's
obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs, square shoulders, —
nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with
an unaccommodating grasp like a stubborn fact, as it was, — all
helped the emphasis.
<( In this life we want nothing but Facts, sir ; nothing but
Facts !»
The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown per-
son present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the in-
clined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order,
ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until
they were full to the brim.
THOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of realities. A man of facts
and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that
two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be
talked into allowing for anything over. Thomas Gradgrind, sin
4636
CHARLES DICKENS
— peremptorily Thomas, — Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and
a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket,
sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature,
and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of
figures, a case of simple arithmetic. You might hope to get
some other nonsensical belief into the head of George Gradgrind,
or Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph Gradgrind
(all supposititious, non-existent persons), but into the head of
Thomas Gradgrind — no, sir!
In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentally introduced him-
self, whether to his private circle of acquaintance, or to the pub-
lic in general. In such terms, no doubt, substituting the words
" boys and girls, w for " sir, w Thomas Gradgrind now presented
Thomas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him, who were to
be filled so full of facts.
Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the cellarage
before mentioned, he seemed a kind of cannon loaded to the
muzzle with facts, and prepared to blow them clean out of the
regions of childhood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanizing
apparatus, too, charged with a grim mechanical substitute for
the tender young imaginations that were to be stormed away.
"Girl number twenty, * said Mr. Gradgrind, squarely pointing
with his square forefinger; " I don't know that girl. Who is that
girl ? »
" Sissy Jupe, sir, J> explained number twenty, blushing, stand-
ing up, and courtesying.
"Sissy is not a name,8 said Mr. Gradgrind. "Don't call
yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia. w
"It's father as calls me Sissy, sir,w returned the young girl
in a trembling voice, and with another courtesy.
" Then he has no business to do it, w said Mr. Gradgrind.
" Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is
your father ? w
"He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir. w
Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off the objectionable call-
ing with his hand.
"We don't want to know anything about that here. You
mustn't tell us about that here. Your father breaks horses,
don't he ? »
" If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do
break horses in the ring, sir. w
CHARLES DICKENS
4637
"You mustn't tell us about the ring here. Very well, then.
Describe your father as a horsebreaker. He doctors sick horses,
I dare say ? *
«Oh yes, sir."
"Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier, and
horsebreaker. Give me your definition of a horse."
(Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.)
"Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!" said Mr.
Gradgrind, for the general behoof of all the little pitchers.
<( Girl number twenty possessed of no facts in reference to one
of the commonest of animals! Some boy's definition of a horse.
Bitzer, yours."
The square finger, moving here and there, lighted suddenly
on Bitzer, perhaps because he chanced to sit in the same ray of
sunlight which, darting in at one of the bare windows of the
intensely whitewashed room, irradiated Sissy. For the boys and
girls sat on the face of the inclined plane in two compact bodies,
divided up the centre by a narrow interval; and Sissy, being at
the corner of a row on the sunny side, came in for the begin-
ning of a sunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the corner of a row
on the other side, a few rows in advance, caught the end. But
whereas the girl was so dark-eyed and dark-haired that she
seemed to receive a deeper and more lustrous color from the sun
when it shone upon her, the boy was so light-eyed and light-
haired that the selfsame rays appeared to draw out of him what
little color he ever possessed. His cold eyes would hardly have
been eyes, but for the short ends of lashes which, by bringing
them into immediate contrast with something paler than them-
selves, expressed their form. His short-cropped hair might have
been a mere continuation of the sandy freckles on his forehead
and face. His skin was so unwholesomely deficient in the natural
tinge, that he looked as though if he were cut he would bleed
white.
" Bitzer, " said Thomas Gradgrind. (< Your definition of a
horse. "
<( Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth ; namely, twenty-
four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in
the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard,
but requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in
mouth." Thus (and much more) Bitzer.
4638
CHARLES DICKENS
<( Now, girl number twenty, w said Mr. Gradgrind, (< you know
what a horse is. w
She courtesied again, and would have blushed deeper, if she
could have blushed deeper than she had blushed all this time.
Bitzer, after rapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind with both
eyes at once, and so catching the light upon his quivering ends
of lashes that they looked like the antennae of busy insects, put
his knuckles to his freckled forehead, and sat down again.
The third gentleman now stepped forth. A mighty man at
cutting and drying, he was; a government officer; in his way
(and in most other people's too), a professed pugilist; always in
training, always with a system to force down the general throat
like a bolus, always to be heard of at the bar of his little
Public-office, ready to fight all England. To continue in fistic
phraseology, he had a genius for coming up to the scratch,
wherever and whatever it was, and proving himself an ugly cus-
tomer. He would go in and damage any subject whatever with
his right, follow up with his left, stop, exchange, counter, bore
his opponent (he always fought All England) to the ropes, and
fall upon him neatly. He was certain to knock the wind out
of common-sense, and render that unlucky adversary deaf to the
call of time. And he had it in charge from high authority to
bring about the great public-office Millennium, when Commis-
sioners should reign upon earth.
<( Very well, w said this gentleman, briskly smiling, and fold-
ing his arms. <( That's a horse. Now, let me ask you girls
and boys, Would you paper a room with representations of
horses ? w
After a pause one-half of the children cried in chorus, (< Yes,
sir ! M Upon which the other half, seeing in the gentleman's face
that Yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, w No, sir ! }> — as the
custom is in these examinations.
(< Of course, No. Why wouldn't you ? w
A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with a wheezy manner of
breathing, ventured the answer, Because he wouldn't paper a
room at all, but would paint it.
<(You must paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly.
<( You must paper it, w said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether you
like it or not. Don't tell us you wouldn't paper it. What do
you mean, boy ? w
CHARLES DICKENS
4639
"I'll explain to you, then," said the gentleman, after another
and dismal pause, w why you wouldn't paper a room with repre-
sentations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and
down the sides of rooms in reality — in fact ? Do you ? *
" Yes, sir!" from one-half. "No, sir!" from the other.
"Of course no," said the gentleman, with an indignant look
at the wrong half. " Why, then, you are not to see anywhere
what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere what
you don't have in fact. What is called Taste is only another
name for Fact."
Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation.
"This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said
the gentleman. tt Now, I'll try you again. Suppose you were
going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a rep-
resentation of flowers upon it ? "
There being a general conviction by this time that tt No, sir ! "
was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of
No was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes;
among them Sissy Jupe.
"Girl number twenty," said the gentleman, smiling in the
calm strength of knowledge.
Sissy blushed, and stood up.
"So you would carpet your room — or your husband's room,
if you were a grown woman, and had a husband — with repre-
sentations of flowers, would you ? " said the gentleman. " Why
would you ? "
"If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers," returned the
girl.
"And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon
them, and have people walking over them with heavy boots ? "
" It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither,
if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very
pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy — "
"Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy," cried the gentleman,
quite elated by coming so happily to his point. "That's it! You
are never to fancy."
"You are not, Cecilia Jupe," Thomas Gradgrind solemnly
repeated, "to do anything of that kind."
"Fact, fact, fact!" said the gentleman. And "Fact, fact,
fact ! " repeated Thomas Gradgrind.
4640
CHARLES DICKENS
(< You are to be in all things regulated and governed, w said
the gentleman, (<by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board
of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the
people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You
must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to
do with it. You are not to have in any object of use or orna-
ment what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk
upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flowers
in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and butterflies come
and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint
foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You never
meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls; you must not
have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must use,* said
the gentleman, <(for all these purposes, combinations and modi-
fications (in primary colors) of mathematical figures, which are
susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discov-
ery. This is fact. This is taste. w
The girl courtesied, and sat down. She was very young, and
she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact pros-
pect the world afforded.
<( Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild,* said the gentleman, (<will
proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be
happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure.*
Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. <( Mr. M'Choakumchild, we
only wait for you.*
So Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his best manner. He and
some one hundred and forty other schoolmasters had been lately
turned at the same time, in the same factory, on the same prin-
ciples, like so many pianoforte legs. He had been put through
an immense variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-
breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax, and prosody,
biography, astronomy, geography, and general cosmography, the
sciences of compound proportion, algebra, land-surveying and
leveling, vocal music, and drawing from models, were all at the
ends of his ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way
into her Majesty's most Honorable Privy Council's Schedule B,
and had taken the bloom off the higher branches of mathematics
and physical science, French, German, Latin, and Greek. He
knew all about all the Water Sheds of all the world (whatever
they are), and all the histories of all the peoples, and all the
CHARLES DICKENS 4641
names of all the rivers and mountains, and all the productions,
manners, and customs of all the countries, and all their bounda-
ries and bearings on the two-and-thirty points of the compass.
Ah, rather overdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had only learned a
little less, how infinitely better he might have taught much
more!
He went to work in this preparatory lesson not unlike Mor-
giana in the ( Forty Thieves } : looking into all the vessels ranged
before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say,
good M'Choakumchild. When from thy boiling store thou shalt
fill each jar brim-full, by-and-by, dost thou think that thou wilt
always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within — or some-
times only maim him and distort him!
THE BOY AT MUGBY
From < Mugby Junction >
I AM the boy at Mugby. That's about what / am.
You don't know what I mean ? What a pity! But I think
you do. I think you must. Look here. I am the Boy at
what is called The Refreshment Room at Mugby Junction, and
what's proudest boast is, that it never yet refreshed a mortal
being.
Up in a corner of the Down Refreshment Room at Mugby
Junction, in the height of twenty-seven cross draughts (I've often
counted 'em while they brush the First Class hair twenty-seven
ways), behind the bottles, among the glasses, bounded on the
nor'west by the beer, stood pretty far to the right of a metallic
object that's at times the tea-urn and at times the soup-tureen,
according to the nature of the last twang imparted to its contents,
which are the same groundwork, fended off from the traveler by
a barrier of stale sponge-cakes erected atop of the counter, and
lastly exposed sideways to the glare of Our Missis's eye — you
ask a Boy so sitiwated, next time you stop in a hurry at Mugby,
for anything to drink; you take particular notice that he'll try
to seem not to hear you, that he'll appear in a absent manner
to survey the Line through a transparent medium composed of
your head and body, and that he won't serve you as long as you
can possibly bear it. That's me
VIII — 201
4642
CHARLES DICKENS
What a lark it is! We are the Model Establishment, we are,
at Mugby. Other Refreshment Rooms send their imperfect young
ladies up to be finished off by our Missis. For some of the
young ladies, when they're new to the business, come into it
mild ! Ah ! . Our Missis, she soon takes that out of 'em. Why,
I originally come into the business meek myself. But Our
Missis, she soon took that out of me.
What a delightful lark it is! I look upon us Refreshmenters
as ockipying the only proudly independent footing on the Line.
There's Papers, for instance, — my honorable friend, if he will
allow me to call him so, — him as belongs to Smith's bookstall.
Why, he no more dares to be up to our Refreshmenting games
than he dares to jump atop of a locomotive with her steam at
full pressure, and cut away upon her alone, driving himself, at
limited-mail speed. Papers, he'd get his head punched at every
compartment, first, second, and third, the whole length of a
train, if he was to ventur' to imitate my demeanor. It's the
same with the porters, the same with the guards, the same with
the ticket clerks, the same the whole way up to the secretary,
traffic manager, or very chairman. There ain't a one among 'em
on the nobly independent footing we are. Did you ever catch
one of them, when you wanted anything of him, making a sys-
tem of surveying the Line through a transparent medium com;
posed of your head and body ? I should hope not.
You should see our Bandolining Room at Mugby Junction.
It's led to by the door behind the counter, which you'll notice
usually stands ajar, and it's the room where Our Missis and our
young ladies Bandolines their hair. You should see 'em at it,
betwixt trains, Bandolining away, as if they was anointing them-
selves for the combat. When you're telegraphed you should see
their noses all agoing up with scorn, as if it was a part of the
working of the safne Cooke and Wheatstone electrical machinery.
You should hear Our Missis give the word, (< Here comes the
Beast to be Fed ! w and then you should see 'em indignantly
skipping across the Line, from the Up to the Down, or Wicer
Warsaw, and begin to pitch the stale pastry into the plates, and
chuck the sawdust sangwiches under the glass covers, and get
out the — ha, ha, ha! — the Sherry, — O my eye, my eye! — for
your Refreshment.
It's only in the Isle of the Brave and Land of the Free (by
which of course I mean to say Britannia) that Refreshmenting
CHARLES DICKENS 4643
is so effective, so 'olesome, so constitutional a check upon the
public. There was a foreigner, which having politely, with his
hat off, beseeched our young ladies and Our Missis for <(a leetel
gloss hoff prarndee," and having had the Line surveyed through
him by all, and no other acknowledgment, was a-proceeding at
last to help himself, as seems to be the custom in his own coun-
try, when Our Missis, with her hair almost a-coming un-Bando-
lined with rage, and her eyes omitting sparks, flew at him,
cotched the decanter out of his hand, and said, "Put it down!
I won't allow that ! w The foreigner turned pale, stepped back
with his arms stretched out in front of him, his hands clasped,
and his shoulders riz, and exclaimed: — (<Ah! Is it possible, this!
That these disdaineous females and this ferocious old woman are
placed here by the administration, not only to empoison the
voyagers, but to affront them! Great Heaven! How arrives
it ? The English people. Or is he then a slave ? Or idiot ? *
Another time a merry, wide-awake American gent had tried the
sawdust and spit it out, and had tried the Sherry and spit that
out, and had tried in vain to sustain exhausted natur' upon But-
ter-Scotch, and had been rather extra Bandolined and Line-sur-
veyed through, when as the bell was ringing and he paid Our
Missis, he says, very loud and good-tempered : — <( I tell Yew what
'tis, ma'arm. I la'af. Theer! I la'af. I Dew. I oughter ha'
seen most things, for I hail from the Onlimited side of the
Atlantic Ocean, and I haive traveled right slick over the Limited,
head on through Jeerusalemm and the East, and like ways France
and Italy Europe Old World, and am now upon the track to the
Chief Europian Village; but such an Institution as Yew, and
Yewer young ladies, and Yewer fixin's solid and liquid, afore
the glorious Tarnal I never did see yet! And if I hain't found
the eighth wonder of monarchical Creation, in rinding Yew, and
Yewer young ladies, and Yewer fixin's solid and liquid, all as
aforesaid, established in a country where the people air not abso-
lute Loo-naticks, I am Extra Double Darned with a Nip and
Frizzle to the innermostest grit! Wheerfur — Theer! — I la'af!
I Dew, ma'arm. I la'af ! w And so he went, stamping and shak-
ing his sides, along the platform all the way to his own com-
partment.
I think it was her standing up agin the Foreigner as give
Our Missis the idea of going over to France, and droring a com-
parison betwixt Refreshmenting as followed among the frog-eaters
4644
CHARLES DICKENS
and Refreshmenting as triumphant in the Isle of the Brave
and Land of the Free (by which of course I mean to say agin,
Britannia). Our young ladies, Miss Whiff, Miss Piff, and Mrs.
Sniff, was unanimous opposed to her going: for, as they says to
Our Missis one and all, it is well beknown to the hends of the
herth as no other nation except Britain has a idea of anythink,
but above all of business. Why then should you tire yourself to
prove what is a'ready proved ? Our Missis, however (being a
teazer at all pints), stood out grim obstinate, and got a return
pass by Southeastern Tidal, to go right through, if such should
be her dispositions, to Marseilles.
Sniff is husband to Mrs. Sniff, and is a regular insignificant
cove. He looks arter the sawdust department in a back room,
and is sometimes, when we are very hard put to it, let behind
the counter with a corkscrew; but never when it can be helped,
his demeanor towards the public being disgusting servile. How
Mrs. Sniff ever come so far to lower herself as to marry him, I
don't know; but I suppose he does, and I should think he wished
he didn't, for he leads a awful life. Mrs. Sniff couldn't be
much harder with him if he was public. Similarly, Miss Whiff
and Miss Piff, taking the tone of Mrs. Sniff, they shoulder Sniff
about when he is let in with a corkscrew, and they whisk things
out of his hands when in his servility he is a-going to let the
public have 'em, and they snap him up when in the crawling
baseness of his spirit he is a-going to answer a public question,
and they drore more tears into his eyes than ever the mustard
does, which he all day long lays on to the sawdust. (But it ain't
strong.) Once when Sniff had the repulsiveness to reach across
to get the milkpot to hand over for a baby, I see Our Missis in
her rage catch him by both his shoulders, and spin him out into
the Bandolining Room.
But Mrs. Sniff — how different! She's the one! She's the
one as you'll notice to be always looking another away from you
when you look at her. She's the one with the small waist
buckled in tight in front, and with the lace cuffs at her wrists,
which she puts on the edge of the counter before her, and stands
a-smoothing while the public foams. This smoothing the cuffs
and looking another way while the public foams is the last
accomplishment taught to the youwg ladies as come to Mugby
to be finished by Our Missis; and it's always taught by Mrs.
Sniff.
CHARLES DICKENS
4645
When Our Missis went away upon her journey, Mrs. Sniff
was left in charge. She did hold the public in check most beau-
tiful! In all my time, I never see half so many cups of tea
given without milk to people as wanted it with, nor half so
many cups of tea with milk given to people as wanted it with-
out. When foaming ensued, Mrs. Sniff would say, (< Then you'd
better settle it among yourselves, and change with one another. w
It was a most highly delicious lark. I enjoyed the Refreshment-
ing business more than ever, and was so glad I had took to it
when young.
Our Missis returned. It got circulated among the young
ladies, and it, as it might be, penetrated to me through the crev-
ices of the Bandolining Room, that she had Orrors to reveal, if
revelations so contemptible could be dignified with the name.
Agitation become weakened. Excitement was up in the stirrups.
Expectation stood a-tiptoe. At length it was put forth that on
our slackest evening in the week, and at our slackest time of
that evening betwixt trains, Our Missis would give her views
of foreign Refreshmenting, in the Bandolining Room.
It was arranged tasteful for the purpose. The Bandolining
table and glass was hid in a corner, a arm-chair was elevated
on a packing-case for Our Missis's ockypation, a table and a
tumbler of water (no sherry in it, thankee) was placed beside it.
Two of the pupils, the season being autumn, and hollyhocks and
daliahs being in, ornamented the wall with three devices in those
flowers. On one might be read, (<MAY ALBION NEVER LEARN w;
on another, (< KEEP THE PUBLIC DOWN w ; on another, (< OUR RE-
FRESHMENTING CHARTER. w The whole had a beautiful appearance,
with which the beauty of the sentiments corresponded.
On Our Missis's brow was wrote Severity, as she ascended the
fatal platform. (Not that that was anythink new.) Miss Whiff
and Miss Piff sat at her feet. Three chairs from the Waiting
Room might have been perceived by a average eye, in front of
her, on which the pupils was accommodated Behind them a
very close observer might have discerned a Boy. Myself.
"Where," said Our Missis, glancing gloomily around, (<is
Sniff ? »
<( I thought it better, J> answered Mrs. Sniff, <( that he should
not be let come in. He is such an Ass.8
(< No doubt, w assented Our Missis. <( But for that reason is it
not desirable to improve his mind ? w
4646
CHARLES DICKENS
(<Oh, nothing will ever improve him* said Mrs. Sniff.
<( However, " pursued Our Missis, (< call him in, Ezekiel. "
I called him in. The appearance of the low-minded cove was
hailed with disapprobation from all sides, on account of his
having brought his corkscrew with him. He pleaded w the force
of habit. »
w The force ! " said Mrs. Sniff. w Don't let us have you talking
about force, for Gracious's sake. There! Do stand still where
you are, with your back against the wall."
He is a smiling piece of vacancy, and he smiled in the mean
way in which he will even smile at the public if he gets a chance
(language can say no meaner of him), and he stood upright near
the door, with the back of his head agin the wall, as if he was a
waiting for somebody to come and measure his heighth for the
Army.
(< I should not enter, ladies, " says Our Missis, w on the revolt-
ing disclosures I am about to make, if it was not in the hope
that they will cause you to be yet more implacable in the exer-
cise of the power you wield in a constitutional country, and yet
more devoted to the constitutional motto which I see before
me," — it was behind her, but the words sounded better so, —
" ( May Albion never learn ! * "
Here the pupils as had made the motto admired it, and cried,
"Hear! Hear! Hear!" Sniff, showing an inclination to join in
chorus, got himself frowned down by every brow.
w The baseness of the French, " pursued Our Missis, <( as dis-
played in the fawning nature of their Refreshmenting, equals, if
not surpasses, anythink as was ever heard of the baseness of the
celebrated Bonaparte. "
Miss Whiff, Miss Piff, and me, we drored a heavy breath,
equal to saying, (< We thought as much ! " Miss Whiff and Miss
Piff seeming to object to my droring mine along with theirs, I
drored another to aggravate 'em.
(< Shall I be believed, " says Our Missis, with flashing eyes,
(<when I tell you that no sooner had I set my foot upon that
treacherous shore — "
Here Sniff, either busting out mad, or thinking aloud, says,
in a low voice, <( Feet. Plural, you know. "
The cowering that come upon him when he was spurned by
all eyes, added to his being beneath contempt, was sufficient
punishment for a cove so groveling. In the midst of a silence
CHARLES DICKENS
4647
rendered more impressive by the turned-up female noses with
which it was pervaded, Our Missis went on: —
(< Shall I be believed when I tell you, that no sooner had I
landed, w this word with a killing look at Sniff, (< on that treach-
erous shore, then I was ushered into a Refreshment Room
where there were — I do not exaggerate — actually eatable things
to eat?»
A groan burst from the ladies. I not only did myself the
honor of jining, but also of lengthening it out.
(< Where there were, w Our Missis added, <( not only eatable
things to eat, but also drinkable things to drink ? *
A murmur, swelling almost into a scream, ariz. Miss Piff,
trembling with indignation, called out, <( Name ! w
(< I will name, * said Our Missis. <( There was roast fowls, hot
and cold; there was smoking roast veal surrounded with browned
potatoes; there was hot soup with (again I ask, shall I be cred-
ited ?) nothing bitter in it, and no flour to choke off the con-
sumer; there was a variety of cold dishes set off with jelly;
there was salad ; there was — mark me ! — fresh pastry, and that
of a light construction; there was a luscious show of fruit; there
was bottles and decanters of sound small wine, of every size, and
adapted to every pocket; the same odious statement will apply
to brandy; and these were set out upon the counter so that all
could help themselves. w
Our Missis's lips so quivered, that Mrs. Sniff, though scarcely
less convulsed than she were, got up and held the tumbler to
them.
(< This, w proceeds Our Missis, <( was my first unconstitutional
experience. Well would it have been if it had been my last and
worst. But no. As I proceeded farther into that enslaved and
ignorant land, its aspect became more hideous. I need not ex-
plain to this assembly the ingredients and formation of the
British Refreshment sangwich ? w
Universal laughter, — except from Sniff, who as sangwich-
cutter, shook his head in a state of the utmost dejection as he
stood with it agin the wall.
(< Well ! }> said Our Missis, with dilated nostrils. <( Take a
fresh, crisp, long, crusty penny loaf made of the whitest and
best flour. Cut it longwise through the middle. Insert a fair
and nicely fitting slice of ham. Tie a smart piece of ribbon
round the middle of the whole to bind it together. Add at one
4648
CHARLES DICKENS
end a neat wrapper of clean white paper by which to hold it.
And the universal French Refreshment sangwich busts on your
disgusted vision."
A cry of « Shame ! " from all — except Sniff, which rubbed his
stomach with a soothing hand.
<( I need not," said Our Missis, " explain to this assembly the
usual formation and fitting of the British Refreshment room ? "
No, no, and laughter; Sniff agin shaking his head in low
spirits agin the wall.
"Well,* said Our Missis, "what would you say to a general
decoration of every think, to hangings (sometimes elegant), to
easy velvet furniture, to abundance of little tables, to abundance
of little seats, to brisk bright waiters, to great convenience, to a
prevailing cleanliness and tastefulness, postively addressing the
public, and making the Beast thinking itself worth the pains ? "
Contemptous fury on the part of all the ladies. Mrs. Sniff
looking as if she wanted somebody to hold her, and everybody
else looking as if they'd rayther not.
"Three times," said Our Missis, working herself into a truly
terrimenjious state, — " three times did I sec these shameful
things, only between the coast and Paris, and not counting
either: at Hazebroucke, at Arras, at Amiens. But worse remains.
Tell me, what would you call a person who should propose in
England that there should be kept, say at our own model Mugby
Junction, pretty baskets, each holding an assorted cold lunch and
dessert for one, each at a certain fixed price, and each within a
passenger's power to take away, to empty in the carriage at
perfect leisure, and to return at another station fifty or a hundred
miles farther on ? "
There was disagreement what such a person should be called.
Whether revolutionist, atheist, Bright (7 said him), or Un-English.
Miss Piff screeched her shrill opinion last, in the words, w A
malignant maniac ! "
" I adopt, w says Our Missis, w the brand set upon such a per-
son by the righteous indignation of my friend Miss Piff. A
malignant maniac. Know, then, that that malignant maniac has
sprung from the congenial soil of France, and that his malignant
madness was in unchecked action on this same part of my
journey."
I noticed that Sniff was rubbing his hands, and that Mrs.
Sniff had got her eye upon him. But I did not take more
CHARLES DICKENS
4649
particular notice, owing to the excited state in which the young
ladies was, and to feeling myself called upon to keep it up with
a howl.
(<On my experience south of Paris, w said Our Missis, in a deep
tone, (< I will not expatiate. Too loathsome were the task! But
fancy this. Fancy a guard coming round, with the train at full
speed, to inquire how many for dinner. Fancy his telegraphing
forward the number of diners. Fancy every one expected, and
the table elegantly laid for the complete party. Fancy a charm-
ing dinner, in a charming room, and the head cook, concerned
for the honor of every dish, superintending in his clean white
jacket and cap. Fancy the Beast traveling six hundred miles on
end, very fast, and with great punctuality, yet being taught to
expect all this to be done for it ! w
A spirited chorus of (< The Beast ! w
I noticed that Sniff was agin a-rubbing his stomach with a
soothing hand, and that he had drored up one leg. But agin I
didn't take particular notice, looking on myself as called upon to
stimilate public feeling. It being a lark besides. •
(( Putting everything together, w said Our Missis, <( French Re-
freshmenting comes to this, and oh, it comes to a nice total!
First: eatable things to eat, and drinkable things to drink. w
A groan from the young ladies, kep' up by me.
<( Second : convenience, and even elegance. M
Another groan from the young ladies, kep' up by me.
<( Third : moderate charges. w
This time a groan from me, kep' up by the young ladies.
(< Fourth: — and here," says Our Missis, <( I claim your angriest
sympathy, — attention, common civility, nay, even politeness ! w
Me and the young ladies regularly raging mad all together.
<(And I cannot in conclusion, w says Our Missis with her spite-
fullest sneer, <( give you a completer pictur of that despicable
nation (after what I have related), than assuring you that they
wouldn't bear our constitutional ways and noble independence at
Mugby Junction for a single month, and that they would turn us
to the right-about and put another system in our places as soon
as look at us; perhaps sooner, for I do not believe they have the
good taste to care to look at us twice. w
The swelling tumult was arrested in its rise. Sniff, bore away
by his servile disposition, had drored up his leg with a higher
and a higher relish, and was now discovered to be waving his
CHARLES DICKENS
corkscrew over his head. It was at this moment that Mrs. Sniff,
who had kep' her eye upon him like the fabled obelisk, descended
on her victim. Our Missis followed them both out, and cries was
heard in the sawdust department.
You come into the Down Refreshment Room at the Junction,
making believe you don't know me, and I'll pint you out with
my right thumb over my shoulder which is Our Missis, and which
is Miss Whiff, and which is Miss Piff, and which is Mrs. Sniff
But you won't get a chance to see Sniff, because he disappeared
that night. Whether he perished, tore to pieces, I cannot say;
but his corkscrew alone remains to bear witness to the servility
of his disposition.
THE BURNING OF NEWGATE
From < Barnaby Rudge *
DURING the whole of this day, every regiment in or near the
metropolis was on duty in one or other part of the town;
and the regulars and militia, in obedience to the orders
which were sent to every barrack and station within twenty-four
hours' journey, began to pour in by all the roads. But the dis-
turbances had attained to such a formidable height, and the
rioters had grown with impunity to be so audacious, that the
sight of this great force, continually augmented by new arrivals,
instead of operating as a check, stimulated them to outrages of
greater hardihood than any they had yet committed; and helped
to kindle a flame in London the like of which had never been
beheld, even in its ancient and rebellious times.
All yesterday, and on this day likewise, the commander-in-chief
endeavored to arouse the magistrates to a sense of their duty,
and in particular the Lord Mayor, who was the faintest-hearted
and most timid of them all. With this object, large bodies of
the soldiery were several times dispatched to the Mansion House
to await his orders: but as he could by no threats or persua-
sions be induced to give any, and as the men remained in the
open street, — fruitlessly for any good purpose, and thrivingly for
a very bad one, — these laudable attempts did harm rather than
good. For the crowd, becoming speedily acquainted with the
Lord Mayor's temper, did not fail to take advantage of it by
boasting that even the civil authorities were opposed to the
CHARLES DICKENS
4651
Papists, and could not find it in their hearts to molest those who
were guilty of no other offense. These vaunts they took care to
make within the hearing of the soldiers; and they, being natu-
rally loath to quarrel with the people, received their advances
kindly enough; answering, when they were asked if they desired
to fire upon their countrymen, <( No, they would be damned if
they did ; w and showing much honest simplicity and good-nature.
The feeling that the military were No Popery men, and were
ripe for disobeying orders and joining the mob, soon became
very prevalent in consequence. Rumors of their disaffection, and
of their leaning towards the popular cause, spread from mouth to
mouth with astonishing rapidity; and whenever they were drawn
up idly in the streets or squares there was sure to be a crowd
about them, cheering, and shaking hands, and treating them with
a great show of confidence and affection.
By this time the crowd was everywhere; all concealment and
disguise were laid aside, and they pervaded the whole town. If
any man among them wanted money, he had but to knock at
the door of a dwelling-house, or walk into a shop, and demand
it in the rioters' name, and his demand was instantly complied
with. The peaceable citizens being afraid to lay hands upon them
singly and alone, it may be easily supposed that when gathered
together in bodies they were perfectly secure from interruption.
They assembled in the streets, traversed them at their will and
pleasure, and publicly concerted their plans. Business was quite
suspended; the greater part of the shops were closed; most of
the houses displayed a blue flag in token of their adherence to
the popular side; and even the Jews in Houndsditch, White-
chapel, and those quarters, wrote upon their doors or window-
shutters, (< This House is a True Protestant. w The crowd was
the law, and never was the law held in greater dread or more
implicitly obeyed.
It was about six o'clock in the evening when a vast mob
poured into Lincoln's Inn Fields by every avenue, and divided —
evidently in pursuance of a previous design — into several parties.
It must not be understood that this arrangement was known to
the whole crowd, but that it was the work of a few leaders who,
mingling with the men as they came upon the ground, and call-
ing to them to fall into this or that party, effected it as rapidly
as if it had been determined on by a council of the whole num-
ber, and every man had known his place.
4652
CHARLES DICKENS
It was perfectly notorious to the assemblage that the largest
body, which comprehended about two-thirds of the whole, was
designed for the attack on Newgate. It comprehended all the
rioters who had been conspicuous in any of their former pro-
ceedings; all those whom they recommended as daring hands
and fit for the work; all those whose companions had been taken
in the riots; and a great number of people who were relatives
or friends of felons in the jail. This last class included not only
the most desperate and utterly abandoned villains in London,
but some who were comparatively innocent. There was more
than one woman there, disguised in man's attire, and bent upon
the rescue of a child or brother. There were the two sons of a
man who lay under sentence of death, and who was to be exe-
cuted along with three others, on the next day but one. There
was a great party of boys whose fellow pickpockets were in the
prison; and at the skirts of all, a score of miserable women, out-
casts from the world, seeking to release some other fallen
creature as miserable as themselves, or moved by a general sym-
pathy perhaps — God knows — with all who were without hope
and wretched.
Old swords, and pistols without ball or powder; sledge-ham-
mers, knives, axes, saws, and weapons pillaged from the butch-
ers' shops; a forest of iron bars and wooden clubs; long ladders
for scaling the walls, each carried on the shoulders of a dozen
men; lighted torches; tow smeared with pitch, and tar, and
brimstone; staves roughly plucked from fence and paling; and
even crutches taken from crippled beggars in the streets, com-
posed their arms. When all was ready, Hugh and Dennis, with
Simon Tappertit between them, led the way. Roaring and
chafing like an angry sea, the crowd pressed after them.
Instead of going straight down Holborn to the jail, as all
expected, their leaders took the way to Clerkenwell, and pouring
down a quiet street, halted before a locksmith's house — the
Golden Key. . . .
The locksmith was taken to the head of the crowd, and re-
quired to walk between his two conductors; the whole body was
put in rapid motion; and without any shouting or noise they
bore down straight on Newgate and halted in a dense mass be-
fore the prison gate.
CHARLES DICKENS
4653
BREAKING the silence they had hitherto preserved, they raised
a great cry as soon as they were ranged before the jail, and de-
manded to speak with the governor. Their visit was not wholly
unexpected, for his house, which fronted the street, was strongly
barricaded, the wicket-gate of the prison was closed up, and at
no loophole or grating was any person to be seen. Before they
had repeated their summons many times, a man appeared upon
the roof of the governor's house, and asked what it was they
wanted.
Some said one thing, some another, and some only groaned
and hissed. It being now nearly dark, and the house high, many
persons in the throng were not aware that any one had come to
answer them, and continued their clamor until the intelligence
was gradually diffused through the whole concourse. Ten min-
utes or more elapsed before any one voice could be heard with
tolerable distinctness; during which interval the figure remained
perched alone, against the summer evening sky, looking down
into the troubled street.
(< Are you, " said Hugh at length, <( Mr. Akerman, the head
jailer here ? *
(( Of course he is, brother,* whispered Dennis. But Hugh,
without minding him, took his answer from the man himself.
"Yes," he said; « I am.8
<( You have got some friends of ours in your custody, master. "
(< I have a good many people in my custody. " He glanced
downward as he spoke, into the jail; and the feeling that he
could see into the different yards, and that he overlooked every-
thing which was hidden from their view by the rugged walls, so
lashed and goaded the mob that they howled like wolves.
<c Deliver up our friends, * said Hugh, <(and you may keep the
rest. »
<( It's my duty to keep them all. I shall do my duty. w
(< If you don't throw the doors open, we shall break 'em
down,* said Hugh; <( for we will have the rioters out.*
<( All I can do, good people, " Akerman replied, <( is to exhort
you to disperse; and to remind you that the consequences of
any disturbance in this place will be very severe, and bitterly
repented by most of you, when it is too late."
He made as though he would retire when he had said these
words, but he was checked by the voice of the locksmith.
<( Mr. Akerman ! " cried Gabriel, (< Mr. Akerman ! *
CHARLES DICKENS
(< I will hear no more from any of you," replied the governor,
turning towards the speaker, and waving his hand.
(<But I am not one of them/ said Gabriel. "I am an honest
man, Mr. Akerman; a respectable tradesman — Gabriel Varden,
the locksmith. You know me?*
" You among the crowd ! " cried the governor in an altered
voice.
(< Brought here by force — brought here to pick the lock of
the great door for them," rejoined the locksmith. "Bear witness
for me, Mr. Akerman, that I refuse to do it; and that I will not
do it, come what may of my refusal. If any violence is done
to me, please to remember this.0
(< Is there no way of helping you ? " said the governor.
" None, Mr. Akerman. You'll do your duty, and I'll do mine.
Once again, you robbers and cut-throats," said the locksmith,
turning round upon them, " I refuse. Ah ! Howl till you're
hoarse. I refuse."
w Stay — stay!" said the jailer, hastily. "Mr. Varden, I know
you for a worthy man, and one who would do no unlawful act
except upon compulsion — "
"Upon compulsion, sir," interposed the locksmith, who felt
that the tone in which this was said conveyed the speaker's
impression that he had ample excuse for yielding to the furious
multitude who beset and hemmed him in on every side, and
among whom he stood, an old man, quite alone, — w upon compul-
sion, sir, I'll do nothing."
"Where is that man," said the keeper, anxiously, "who spoke
to me just now ? "
" Here ! " Hugh replied.
" Do you know what the guilt of murder is, and that by
keeping that honest tradesman at your side you endanger his
life!"
"We know it very well," he answered; "for what else did we
bring him here ? Let's have our friends, master, and you shall
have your friend. Is that fair, lads ? "
The mob replied to him with a loud hurrah!
"You see how it is, sir," cried Varden. "Keep 'em out, in
King George's name. Remember what I have said. Good-
night!"
There was no more parley. A shower of stones and other
missiles compelled the keeper of the jail to retire; and the mob,
CHARLES DICKENS
4655
pressing on, and swarming round the walls, forced Gabriel Var-
den close up to the door.
In vain the basket of tools was laid upon the ground before
him, and he was urged in turn by promises, by blows, by offers
of reward and threats of instant death, to do the office for which
they had brought him there. <( No, }> cried the sturdy locksmith,
«I will not."
He had never loved his life so well as then, but nothing could
move him. The savage faces that glared upon him, look where
he would; the cries of those who thirsted like wild animals for
his blood; the sight of men pressing forward, and trampling
down their fellows, as they strove to reach him, and struck at
him above the heads of other men, with axes and with iron bars ;
all failed to daunt him. He looked from man to man and face
to face, and still, with quickened breath and lessening color, cried
firmly, « I will not ! »
Dennis dealt him a blow upon the face which felled him
to the ground. He sprang up again like a man in the prime
of life, and with blood upon his forehead caught him by the
throat.
<( You cowardly dog ! B he said : <c Give me my daughter ! Give
me my daughter ! }>
They struggled together. Some cried (< Kill him ! w and some
(but they were not near enough) strove to trample him to death.
Tug as he would at the old man's wrists, the hangman could not
force him to unclinch his hands.
(< Is this all the return you make me, you ungrateful mon-
ster ? >J he articulated with great difficulty, and with many oaths.
(< Give me my daughter ! w cried the locksmith, who was now
as fierce as those who gathered round him ; (< give me my daugh-
ter !»
•
He was down again, and up, and down once more, and buf-
feting with a score of them, who bandied him from hand to
hand, when one tall fellow, fresh from a slaughter-house, whose
dress and great thigh-boots smoked hot with grease and blood,
raised a pole-axe, and swearing a horrible oath, aimed it at the
old man's uncovered head. At that instant, and in the very act,
he fell himself, as if struck by lightning, and over his body a
one-armed man came darting to the locksmith's side. Another
man was with him, and both caught the locksmith roughly in
their grasp.
4656
CHARLES DICKENS
<( Leave him to us ! w they cried to Hugh — struggling as they
spoke, to force a passage backward through the crowd. w Leave
him to us. Why do you waste your whole strength on such as
he, when a couple of men can finish him in as many minutes!
You lose time. Remember the prisoners! remember Barnaby!"
The cry ran through the mob. Hammers began to rattle
on the walls; and every man strove to reach the prison, and be
among the foremost rank. Fighting their way through the press
and struggle, as desperately as if they were in the midst of
enemies rather than their own friends, the two men retreated
with the locksmith between them, and dragged him through the
very heart of the concourse.
And now the strokes began to fall like hail upon the gate
and on the strong building; for those who could not reach the
door spent their fierce rage on anything — even on the great
blocks of stone, which shivered their weapons into fragments,
and made their hands and arms to tingle as if the walls were
active in their stout resistance, and dealt them back their blows.
The clash of iron ringing upon iron mingled with the deafening
tumult and sounded high above it, as the great sledge-hammers
rattled on the nailed and plated door: the sparks flew off in
showers; men worked in gangs, and at short intervals relieved
each other, that all their strength might be devoted to the work;
but there stood the portal still, as grim and dark and strong as
ever, and saving for the dints upon its battered surface, quite
unchanged.
While some brought all their energies to bear upon this toil-
some task, and some, rearing ladders against the prison, tried to
clamber to the summit of the walls they were too short to scale,
and some again engaged a body of police a hundred strong, and
beat them back and trod them under foot by force of numbers,
others besieged the house on which the jailer had appeared, and
driving in the door, brought out his furniture and piled it up
against the prison gate to make a bonfire which should burn it
down. As soon as this device was understood, all those who
had labored hitherto cast down their tools and helped to swell
the heap, which reached half-way across the street, and was so
high that those who threw more fuel on the top got up by lad-
ders. When all the keeper's goods were flung upon this costly
pile, to the last fragment, they smeared it with the pitch and tar
and rosin they had brought, and sprinkled it with turpentine.
CHARLES DICKENS
4657
To all the woodwork round the prison doors they did the like,
leaving not a joist or beam untouched. This infernal christen-
ing performed, they fired the pile with lighted matches and with
blazing tow, and then stood by, awaiting the result.
The furniture being very dry and rendered more combustible
by wax and oil, besides the arts they had used, took fire at once.
The flames roared high and fiercely, blackening the prison wall,
and twining up its lofty front like burning serpents. At first
they crowded round the blaze, and vented their exultation only
in their looks; but when it grew hotter and fiercer — when it
crackled, leaped, and roared, like a great furnace — when it shone
upon the opposite houses and lighted up not only the pale and
wondering faces at the windows, but the inmost corners of each
habitation — when, through the deep red heat and glow, the fire
was seen sporting and toying with the door, now clinging to its
obdurate surface, now gliding off with fierce inconstancy and
soaring high into the sky, anon returning to fold it in its burn-
ing grasp and lure it to its ruin — when it shone and gleamed so
brightly that the church clock of St. Sepulchre's, so often point-
ing to the hour of death, was legible as in broad day, and the
vane upon its steeple -top glittered in the unwonted light like
something richly jeweled — when blackened stone and sombre
brick grew ruddy in the deep reflection, and windows shone like
burnished gold, dotting the longest distance in the fiery vista
with their specks of brightness — when wall and tower and roof
and chimney-stack seemed drunk, and in the flickering glare ap-
peared to reel and stagger — when scores of objects, never seen
before, burst out upon the view, and things the most familiar
put on some new aspect — then the mob began to join the whirl,
and with loud yells, and shouts, and clamor, such as happily is
seldom heard, bestirred themselves to feed the fire and keep it at
its height.
Although the heat was so intense that the paint on the houses
over against the prison parched and crackled up, and swelling
into boils as it were, from excess of torture, broke and crumbled
away; although the glass fell from the window-sashes, and the
lead and iron on the roofs blistered the incautious hand that
touched them, and the sparrows in the eaves took wing, and
rendered giddy by the smoke, fell fluttering down upon the blaz-
ing pile ; — still the fire was tended unceasingly by busy hands, and
round it men were going always. They never slackened in their
vni — 292
CHARLES DICKENS
zeal, or kept aloof, but pressed upon the flames so hard that
those in front had much ado to save themselves from being
thrust in; if one man swooned or dropped, a dozen struggled for
his place, and that, although they knew the pain and thirst and
pressure to be unendurable. Those who fell down in fainting
fits, and were not crushed or burned, were carried to an inn-yard
close at hand, and dashed with water from a pump; of which
buckets full were passed from man to man among the crowd;
but such was the strong desire of all to drink, and such the
fighting to be first, that for the most part the whole contents
were spilled upon the ground, without the lips of one man being
moistened.
Meanwhile, and in the midst of all the roar and outcry, those
who were nearest to the pile heaped up again the burning frag-
ments that came toppling down, and raked the fire about the
door, which, although a sheet of flame, was still a door fast
locked and barred, and kept them out. Great pieces of blazing
wood were passed, besides, above the people's heads to such as
stood about the ladders, and some of these, climbing up to the
topmost stave, and holding on with one hand by the prison wall,
exerted all their skill and force to cast these fire-brands on the
roof, or down into the yards within. In many instances their
efforts were successful, which occasioned a new and appalling
addition to the horrors of the scene; for the prisoners within,
seeing from between their bars that the fire caught in many
places and thrived fiercely, and being all locked up in strong
cells for the night, began to know that they were in danger of
being burned alive. This terrible fear, spreading from cell to
cell and from yard to yard, vented itself in such dismal cries and
wailings, and in such dreadful shrieks for help, that the whole
jail resounded with the noise; which was loudly heard even above
the shouting of the mob and roaring of the flames, and was so
full of agony and despair that it made the boldest tremble. . . .
The women who were looking on shrieked loudly, beat their
hands together, stopped their ears, and many fainted; the men
who were not near the walls and active in the siege, rather than
do nothing tore up the pavement of the street, and did so with
a haste and fury they could not have surpassed if that had been
the jail, and they were near their object. Not one living creature
in the thron'g was for an instant still. The whole great mass
were mad.
4659
A shout! Another! Another yet, though few knew why, or
what it meant. But those around the gate had seen it slowly
yield, and drop from its topmost hinge. It hung on that side by
but one, but it was upright still because of the bar, and its hav-
ing sunk of its own weight into the heap of ashes at its foot.
There was now a gap at the top of the doorway, through which
could be descried a gloomy passage, cavernous and dark. Pile
up the fire!
It burned fiercely. The door was red-hot, and the gap wider.
They vainly tried to shield their faces with their hands, and
standing as if in readiness for a spring, watched the place. Dark
figures, some crawling on their hands and knees, some carried in
the arms of others, were seen to pass along the roof. It was
plain the jail could hold out no longer. The keeper and his
officers, and their wives and children, were escaping. Pile up the
fire!
The door sank down again: it settled deeper in the cinders —
tottered — yielded — was down !
As they shouted again, they fell back for a moment, and left
a clear space about the fire that lay between them and the jail
entry. Hugh leaped upon the blazing heap, and scattering a
train of sparks into the air, and making the dark lobby glitter
with those that hung upon his dress, dashed into the jail.
The hangman followed. And then so many rushed upon their
track that the fire got trodden down and thinly strewn about the
street; but there was no need of it now, for inside and out, the
prison was in flames..
DURING the whole course of the terrible scene which was now
at its height, one man in the jail suffered a degree of fear and
mental torment which had no parallel in the endurance even of
those who lay under sentence of death.
When the rioters first assembled before the building, the
murderer was roused from sleep — if such slumbers as his may
have that blessed name — by the roar of voices, and the strug-
gling of a great crowd. He started up as these sounds met his
ear, and sitting on his bedstead, listened.
After a short interval of silence the noise burst out again.
Still listening attentively, he made out in course of time that
the jail was besieged by a furious multitude. His guilty con-
science instantly arrayed these men against himself, and brought
4660
CHARLES DICKENS
the fear upon him that he would be singled out and torn to
pieces.
Once impressed with the terror of this conceit, everything
tended to confirm and strengthen it. His double crime, the cir-
cumstances under which it had been committed, the length of
time that had elapsed, and its discovery in spite of all, made
him as it were the visible object of the Almighty's wrath. In
all the crime and vice and moral gloom of the great pest-house
of the capital, he stood alone, marked and singled out by his
great guilt, a Lucifer among the devils. The other prisoners
were a host, hiding and sheltering each other — a crowd like
that without the walls. He was one man against the whole
united concourse; a single, solitary, lonely man, from whom the
very captives in the jail fell off and shrunk appalled.
It might be that the intelligence of his capture having been
bruited abroad, they had come there purposely to drag him out
and kill him in the street; or it might be that they were the
rioters, and in pursuance of an old design had come to sack
the prison. But in either case he had no belief or hope that they
would spare him. Every shout they raised and every sound
they made was a blow upon his heart. As the attack went on,
he grew more wild and frantic in his terror; tried to pull away
the bars that guarded the chimney and prevented him from
climbing up; called loudly on the turnkeys to cluster round the
cell and save him from the fury of the rabble, or put him in
some dungeon underground, no matter of what depth, how dark
it was, or loathsome, or beset with rats and creeping things, so
that it hid him and was hard to find.
But no one came, or answered him. Fearful, even while he
cried to them, of attracting attention, he was silent. By-and-by
he saw, as he looked from his grated window, a strange glim-
mering on the stone walls and pavement of the yard. It was
feeble at first, and came and went, as though some officers with
torches were passing to and fro upon the roof of the prison.
Soon it reddened, and lighted brands came whirling down, spat-
tering the ground with fire, and burning sullenly in corners.
One rolled beneath a wooden bench and set it in a blaze;
another caught a water-spout, and so went climbing up the wall,
leaving a long straight track of fire behind it. After a time, a
slow thick shower of burning fragments, from some upper portion
of the prison which was blazing nigh, began to fall before his
CHARLES DICKENS
4661
door. Remembering that it opened outwards, he knew that
every spark which fell upon the heap, and in the act lost its
bright life and died an ugly speck of dust and rubbish, helped
to entomb him in a living grave. Still, though the jail resounded
with shrieks and cries for help, — though the fire bounded up as
if each separate flame had had a tiger's life, and roared as though
in every one there were a hungry voice — thoiigh the heat began
to grow intense, and the air suffocating, and the clamor without
increased, and the danger of his situation even from one merci-
less element was every moment more extreme, — still he was
afraid to raise his voice again, lest the crowd should break in,
and should, of their own ears or from the information given them
by the other prisoners, get the clew to his place of confinement.
Thus fearful alike of those within the prison and of those with-
out; of noise and silence; light and darkness; of being released,
and being left there to die: he was so tortured and tormented,
that nothing man has ever done to man in the horrible caprice
of power and cruelty, exceeds his self-inflicted punishment.
Now, now, the door was down. Now they came rushing
through the jail, calling to each other in the vaulted passages;
clashing the iron gates dividing yard from yard; beating at the
doors of cells and wards; wrenching off bolts and locks and
bars; tearing down the doorposts to get men out; endeavoring
to drag them by main force through gaps and windows where
a child could scarcely pass; whooping and yelling without a
moment's rest; and running through the heat and flames as if
they were cased in metal. By their legs, their arms, the hair
upon their heads, they dragged the prisoners out. Some threw
themselves upon the captives as they got towards the door, and
tried to file away their irons; some danced about them with a
frenzied joy, and rent their clothes, and were ready, as it seemed,
to tear them limb from limb. Now a party of a dozen men
came darting through the yard into which the murderer cast
fearful glances from his darkened window; dragging a prisoner
along the ground, whose dress they had nearly torn from his
body in their mad eagerness to set him free, and who was bleed-
ing and senseless in their hands. Now a score of prisoners ran
to and fro, who had lost themselves in the intricacies of the
prison, and were so bewildered with the noise and glare that
they knew not where to turn or what to do, and still cried
out for help as loudly as before. Anon some famished wretch,
4662
CHARLES DICKENS
whose theft had been a loaf of bread or scrap of butcher's
meat, came skulking- past, barefooted — going slowly away be-
cause that jail, his house, was burning; not because he had any
other, or had friends to meet, or old haunts to revisit, or any
liberty to gain but liberty to starve and die. And then a knot
of highwaymen went trooping by, conducted by the friends
they had among the crowd, who muffled their fetters as they
went along with handkerchiefs and bands of hay, and wrapped
them in coats and cloaks, and gave them drink from bottles,
and held it to their lips, because of their handcuffs which there
was no time to remove. All this, and Heaven knows how much
more, was done amidst a noise, a hurry, and distraction, like
nothing that we know of even in our dreams; which seemed for-
ever on the rise, and never to decrease for the space of a single
instant.
He was still looking down from his window upon these things,
when a band of men with torches, ladders, axes, and many
kinds of weapons, poured into the yard, and hammering at his
door, inquired if there were any prisoner within. He left the
window when he saw them coming, and drew back into the
remotest corner of the cell; but although he returned them no
answer, they had a fancy that some one was inside, for they
presently set ladders against it, and began to tear away the bars
at the casement; not only that, indeed, but with pickaxes to
hew down the very stones in the wall.
As soon as they had made a breach at the window, large
enough for the admission of a man's head, one of them thrust
in a torch and looked all round the room. He followed this
man's gaze until it rested on himself, and heard him demand
why he had not answered, but made him no reply.
In the general surprise and wonder, they were used to this;
without saying anything more, they enlarged the breach until it
was large enough to admit the body of a man, and then came
dropping down upon the floor, one after another, until the cell
was full. They caught him up among them, handed him to the
window, and those who stood upon the ladders passed him down
upon the pavement of the yard. Then the rest came out, one
after another, and bidding him fly and lose no time, or the way
would be choked up, hurried away to rescue others.
It seemed not a minute's work from first to last. He stag-
gered to his feet, incredulous of what had happened, when the
CHARLES DICKENS
4663
yard was filled again, and a crowd rushed on, hurrying Barnaby
among them. In another minute — not so much: another min-
ute! the same instant, with no lapse or interval between! — he
and his son were being passed from hand to hand, through the
dense crowd in the street, and were glancing backward at a
burning pile which some one said was Newgate.
When he [the hangman] had issued his instructions relative
to every other part of the building, and the mob were dispersed
from end to end, and busy at their work, he took a bundle of
keys from a kind of cupboard in the wall, and going by a pri-
vate passage near the chapel (it joined the governor's house, and
was then on fire), betook himself to the condemned cells, which
were a series of small, strong, dismal rooms, opening on a low
gallery, guarded at the end at which he entered by a strong
iron wicket, and at its opposite extremity by two doors and a
thick grate. Having double-locked the wicket and assured him-
self that the other entrances were well secured, he sat down on
a bench in the gallery and sucked the head of his stick with an
air of the utmost complacency, tranquillity, and contentment.
It would have been strange enough, a man's enjoying himself
in this quiet manner while the prison was burning and such a
tumult was cleaving the air, though he had been outside the walls.
But here in the very heart of the building, and moreover,
with the prayers and cries of the four men under sentence
sounding in his ears, and their hands, stretched out through the
gratings in their cell doors, clasped in frantic entreaty before
his very eyes, it was particularly remarkable. Indeed, Mr. Den-
nis appeared to think it an uncommon circumstance, and to
banter himself upon it; for he thrust his hat on one side as
some men do when they are in a waggish humor, sucked the
head of his stick with a higher relish, and smiled as though he
would say: — (< Dennis, you're a rum dog; you're a queer fellow;
you're capital company, Dennis, and quite a character ! M
He sat in this way for some minutes, while the four men in
the cells, certain that somebody had entered the gallery but un-
able to see who, gave vent to such piteous entreaties as wretches
in their miserable condition may be supposed to have been
inspired with; urging whoever it was to set them at liberty, for
the love of Heaven; and protesting with great fervor, and truly
enough perhaps for the time, that if they escaped they would
amend their ways, and would never, never, never again do wrong
4664
CHARLES DICKENS
before God or man, but would lead penitent and sober lives, and
sorrowfully repent the crimes they had committed. The terrible
energy with which they spoke would have moved any person, no
matter how good or just (if any good or just person could have
strayed into that sad place that night), to set them at liberty,
and while he would have left any other punishment to its free
course, to save them from this last dreadful and repulsive pen-
alty; which never turned a man inclined to evil, and has hard-
ened thousands who were half inclined to good.
Mr. Dennis, who had been bred and nurtured in the good
old school, and had administered the good old laws on the good
old plan, always once and sometimes twice every six weeks, for a
long time bore these appeals with a deal of philosophy. Being
at last, however, rather disturbed in his pleasant reflection by
their repetition, he rapped at one of the doors with his stick,
and cried, —
(< Hold your noise there, will you ? M . . .
Mr. Dennis resumed in a sort of coaxing tone: —
<( Now look'ee here, you four. I'm come here to take care of
you, and see that you ain't burnt, instead of the other thing.
It's no use you making any noise, for you won't be found out by
them as has broken in, and you'll only be hoarse when you come
to the speeches, — which is a pity. What I say in respect to the
speeches always is, 'Give it mouth.* That's my maxim. Give it
mouth. I've heerd," said the hangman, pulling off his hat to
take his handkerchief from the crown and wipe his face, and
then putting it on again a little more on one side than before,
<( I've heerd a eloquence on them boards, — you know what boards
I mean, — and have heerd a degree of mouth given to them
speeches, that they was as clear as a bell, and as good as a play.
There's a pattern! And always, when a thing of this natur's
to come off, what I stand up for is a proper frame of mind.
Let's have a proper frame of mind, and we can go through
with it, creditable — pleasant — sociable. Whatever you do (and
I address myself in particular to you in the furthest), never
snivel. I'd sooner by half, though I lose by it, see a man tear
his clothes a-purpose to spile 'em before they come to me, than
find him sniveling. It is ten to one a better frame of mind,
every way ! w
CHARLES DICKENS 4665
MONSEIGNEUR
From <A Tale of Two Cities)
MONSEIGNEUR, one of the great lords in power at the Court,
held his fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris.
Monseigneur was in his inner room, his sanctuary of
sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to the crowd of worshipers
in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur was about to take
his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many things
with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be
rather rapidly swallowing France; but his morning's chocolate
could not so much as get into the throat of Monseigneur with-
out the aid of four strong men besides the Cook.
Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous deco-
ration, and the Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than
two gold watches in his pocket, emulative of the noble and
chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to conduct the happy choco-
late to Monseigneur's lips. One lackey carried the chocolate pot
into the sacred presence; a second milled and frothed the choco-
late with the little instrument he bore for that function; a third
presented the favored napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold
watches) poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Mon-
seigneur to dispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate
and hold his high place under the admiring heavens. Deep
would have been the blot upon his escutcheon if his chocolate
had been ignobly waited on by only three men; he must have
died of two.
Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where
the Comedy and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented.
Monseigneur was out at a little supper most nights, with fasci-
nating company. So polite and so impressible was Monseigneur,
that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far more influence
with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and state secrets
than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance for France,
as the like always is for all countries similarly favored! — always
was for England (by way of example) in the regretted days of
the merry Stuart who sold it.
Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public busi-
ness, which was to let everything go on in its own way; of par-
ticular public business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble
4666
CHARLES DICKENS
idea that it must all go his way — tend to his own power and
pocket. Of his pleasures, general and particular, Monseigneur
had the other truly noble idea, that the world was made for
them. The text of his order (altered from the original by only
a pronoun, which is not much) ran, (< The earth and the fullness
thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur."
Yet Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrass-
ments crept into his affairs, both private and public; and he had,
as to both classes of affairs, allied himself perforce with a Far-
mer-General. As to finances public, because Monseigneur could
not make anything at all of them, and must consequently let
them out to somebody who could; as to finances private, because
Farmers-General were rich, and Monseigneur, after generations
of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence Mon-
seigneur had taken his sister from a convent while there was yet
time to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she
could wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich
Farmer-General, poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carry-
ing an appropriate cane with a golden apple on the top of it,
was now among the company in the outer rooms, much prostrated
before by mankind — always excepting superior mankind of the
blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked down
upon him with the loftiest contempt.
A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses
stood in his stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls,
six body-women waited on his wife. As one who pretended to
do nothing but plunder and forage where he could, the Farmer-
General — howsoever his matrimonial relations conduced to social
morality — was at least the greatest reality among the personages
who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
For the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and
adorned with every device of decoration that the taste and skill
of the time could achieve, were in truth not a sound business;
considered with any reference to the scarecrows in the rags and
nightcaps elsewhere (and not so far off, either, but that the
watching towers of Notre-Dame, almost equidistant from the two
extremes, could see them both), they would have been an exceed-
ingly uncomfortable business — if that could have been anybody's
business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers desti-
tute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics,
CHARLES DICKENS
4667
of the worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues,
and looser lives; all totally unfit for their several callings,
all lying horribly in pretending to belong to them, but all
nearly or remotely of the order of Monseigneur, and therefore
foisted on all public employments from which anything was to
be got — these were to be told off by the score and the score.
People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the
State, yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or
with lives passed in traveling by any straight road to any true
earthly end, were no less abundant. Doctors who made great
fortunes out of dainty remedies for imaginary disorders that
never existed, smiled upon their courtly patients in the ante-cham-
bers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had discovered every kind
of remedy for the little evils with which the State was touched,
except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to root out a
single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears they
could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving
Philosophers who were remodeling the world with words, and
making card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with
unbelieving Chemists who had an eye on the transmutation of
metals, at this wonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur.
Exquisite gentlemen of the finest breeding, which was at that
remarkable time — and has ever since — to be known by its fruits
of indifference to every natural subject of human interest, were
in the most exemplary state of exhaustion, at the hotel of Mon-
seigneur. Such homes had these various notabilities left behind
them in the fine world of Paris, that the Spies among the assem-
bled devotees of Monseigneur — forming a goodly half of the
polite company — would have found it hard to discover among
the angels of that sphere one solitary wife who in her manners
and appearance owned to being a mother. Indeed, except for
the mere act of bringing a troublesome creature into this world —
which does not go far towards the realization of the name of
mother — there was no such thing known to the fashion. Peasant
women kept the unfashionable babies close, and brought them
up; and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and supped as
at twenty.
The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in
attendance upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half
a dozen exceptional people who had had, for a few years, some
vague misgiving in them that things in general were going
4668
CHARLES DICKENS
rather wrong. As a promising way of setting them right, half
of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic sect of
Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the
spot — thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the
Future for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes
were other three who had rushed into another sect, which
mended matters with a jargon about " the Centre of truth M :
holding that Man had got out of the Centre of truth — which did
not need much demonstration — but had not got out of the Cir-
cumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of the
Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,
by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much
discoursing with spirits went on — and it did a world of good
which never became manifest.
But the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel
of Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment
had only been ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there
would have been eternally correct. Such frizzling and powdering
and sticking-up of hair, such delicate complexions artificially
preserved and mended, such gallant swords to look at, and such
delicate honor to the sense of smell, would surely keep anything
going for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen of the finest
breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they lan-
guidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and
brocade and fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned
Saint Antoine and his devouring hunger far away.
Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for
keeping all things in their places. Everybody was dressed for a
Fancy Ball that was never to leave off. From the Palace of the
Tuileries, through Monseigneur and the whole Court, through
the Chambers, the Tribunals of Justice, and all society (except
the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball descended to the Common Exe-
cutioner; who in pursuance of the charm was required to offi-
ciate (< frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps, and white
silk stockings.8 At the gallows and the wheel — the axe was a
rarity — Monsieur Paris, — as it was the episcopal mode among
his brother Professors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans and
the rest, to call him, — presided in this dainty dress. And who
among the company at Monseigneur's reception in that seventeen-
CHARLES DICKENS
4669
hundred-and-eightieth year of our Lord could possibly doubt
that a system rooted in a frizzled hangman, powdered, gold-laced,
pumped, and white-silk-stockinged, would see the very stars out!
Monseigneur, having eased his four men of their burdens and
taken his chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests
to be thrown open, and issued forth. Then what submission,
what cringing and fawning, what servility, what abject humilia-
tion! As to bowing down in body and spirit, nothing in that
way was left for Heaven — which may have been one among other
reasons why the worshipers of Monseigneur never troubled it.
Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper
on one happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Mon-
seigneur affably passed through his rooms to the remote region of
the Circumference of Truth. There Monseigneur turned and came
back again, and so in due course of time got himself shut up in
his sanctuary by the chocolate sprites, and was seen no more.
The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a
little storm, and the precious little bells went ringing down-stairs.
There was soon but one person left of all the crowd, and he,
with his hat under his arm and his snuff-box in his hand, slowly
passed among the mirrors on his way out.
(< I devote you, * said this person, stopping at the last door on
his way, and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, (< to the
Devil ! »
With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had
shaken the dust from his feet, and quietly walked down-stairs.
He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty
in manner, and with a face like a fine mask. A face of a trans-
parent paleness; every feature in it clearly defined; one set
expression on it. The nose, beautifully formed otherwise, was
very slightly pinched at the top of each nostril. In those two
compressions, or dints, the only little change that the face ever
showed, resided. They persisted in changing color sometimes,
and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted by some-
thing like a faint pulsation; then they gave a look of treachery
and cruelty to the whole countenance. Examined with attention,
its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the line
of the mouth and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much
too horizontal and thin; still, in the effect the face made, it was
a handsome face, and a remarkable one.
Its owner went down-stairs into the courtyard, got into his
carriage, and drove away. Not many people had talked with
4670
CHARLES DICKENS
him at the reception; he had stood in a little space apart, and
Monseigneur might have been warmer in his manner. It appeared,
under the circumstances, rather agreeable to him to see the com-
mon people dispersed before his horses, and often barely es-
caping from being run down. His man drove as if he were
charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man
brought no check into the face or to the lips of the master.
The complaint had sometimes made itself audible, even in that
deaf city and dumb age, that in the narrow streets without foot-
ways, the fierce patrician custom of hard driving endangered and
maimed the mere vulgar in a barbarous manner. But few cared
enough for that to think of it a second time, and in this matter,
as in all others, the common wretches were left to get out of
their difficulties as they could.
With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment
of consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the
carriage dashed through streets and swept round corners, with
women screaming before it, and men clutching each other and
clutching children out of its way. At last, swooping at a street
corner by a fountain, one of its wheels came to a sickening little
jolt, and there was a loud cry from a number of voices, and the
horses reared and plunged.
But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would
not have stopped; carriages were often known to drive on and
leave their wounded behind ; and why not ? But the frightened
valet had got down in a hurry, and there were twenty hands at
the horses' bridles.
"What has gone wrong?" said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among
the feet of the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the
fountain, and was down in the mud and wet, howling over it
like a wild animal.
" Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis ! w said a ragged and submiss-
ive man, <( it is a child. M
<( Why does he make that abominable noise ? Is it his child ? w
w Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis — it is a pity — yes.w
The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened,
where it was, into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As
the tall man suddenly got up from the ground ' and came run-
ning at the carriage, Monsieur the Marquis clapped his hand for
an instant on his sword-hilt.
CHARLES DICKENS
4671
<( Killed ! M shrieked the man in wild desperation, extending
both arms at their length above his head, and staring at him.
« Dead ! »
The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis.
There was nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him
but watchfulness and eagerness; there was no visible menacing
or anger. Neither did the people say anything; after the first
cry they had been silent, and they remained so. The voice of
the submissive man who had spoken was flat and tame in its
extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes over
them all as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
He took out his purse.
(< It is extraordinary to me, }> said he, <( that you people cannot
take care of yourselves and your children. One or the other of
you is forever in the way. How do I know what injury you
have done my horses ? See ! Give him that. w
He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all
the heads craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it
as it fell. The tall man called out again with a most unearthly
cry, "Dead!"
He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for
whom the rest made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature
fell upon his shoulder, sobbing and crying and pointing to the
fountain, where some women were stooping over the motionless
bundle and moving gently about it. They were as silent, how-
ever, as the men.
<( I know all, I know all, }> said the last comer. (< Be a brave
man, my Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to
die so, than to live. It has died in a moment without pain.
Could it have lived an hour as happily ? w
"You are a philosopher, you there, w said the Marquis, smil-
ing. (< How do they call you ? }>
"They call me Defarge."
«Of what trade ?»
<( Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine."
(< Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine," said the
Marquis, throwing him another gold coin, <(and spend it as you
will. The horses there ; are they right ? >}
Without deigning to look at the 'assemblage a second time,
Monsieur the Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being
driven away with the air of a gentleman who had accidentally
broken some common thing, and had paid for it and could afford
6 • CHARLES DICKENS
to pay for it, when his ease was suddenly disturbed by a coin
flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
"Hold!* said Monsieur the Marquis. "Hold the horses! Who
threw that ? >'
He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had
stood, a moment before; but the wretched father was groveling
on his face on the pavement in that spot, and the figure that
stood beside him was the figure of a dark stout woman, knitting.
<( You dogs ! * said the Marquis, but smoothly and with an
unchanged front, except as to the spots on his nose : (< I would
ride over any of you very willingly, and exterminate you from
the earth. If I knew which rascal threw at the carriage, and if
that brigand were sufficiently near it, he should be crushed
under the wheels.*
So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their
experience of what such a man could do to them, within the
law and beyond it, that not a voice, or a hand, or even an eye
was raised. Among the men, not one. But the woman who
stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the Marquis in the
face. It was not for his dignity to notice* it; his contemptuous
eyes passed over her and over all the other rats; and he leaned
back in his seat again and gave the word, " Go on ! *
He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in
quick succession; the Minister, the State- Projector, the Farmer-
General, the Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand
Opera, the Comedy, the whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous
flow, came whirling by. The rats had crept out of their holes
to look on, and they remained looking on for hours; soldiers and
police often passing between them and the spectacle, and mak-
ing a barrier behind which they slunk, and through which they
peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and hid-
den himself away with it, when the women who had tended the
bundle while it lay on the base of the fountain sat there watch-
ing the running of the water and the rolling of the Fancy
Ball — when the one woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting,
still knitted on with the steadfastness of Fate. The water of
the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into evening,
so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time
and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at sup-
per, all things ran their course.
CHARLES DICKENS
4673
A BEAUTIFUL landscape, with the corn bright in it but not
abundant. Patches of poor rye where corn should have been,
patches of poor peas and beans, patches of most coarse vegeta-
ble substitutes for wheat. On inanimate nature, as on the men
and women who cultivated it, a prevalent tendency towards an
appearance of vegetating unwillingly — a dejected disposition to
give up and wither away.
Monsieur the Marquis in his traveling carriage (which might
have been lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two pos-
tilions, fagged up a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of
Monsieur the Marquis was no impeachment of his high breeding;
it was not from within; it was occasioned by an external circum-
stance beyond his control — the setting sun.
The sunset struck so brilliantly into the traveling carriage
when it gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in
crimson. <( It will die out,w said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing
at his hands, (< directly. w
In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment.
When the heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the
carriage slid down hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of
dust, the red glow departed quickly; the sun and the Marquis
going down together, there was no glow left when the drag was
taken off.
But there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little
village at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond
it, a church tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag
with a fortress on it, used as a prison. Round upon all these
darkening objects as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with
the air of one who was coming near home.
The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery,
poor tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-
horses, poor fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its
poor people too. All its people were poor, and many of them
were sitting at their doors, shredding spare onions and the like
for supper, while many were at the fountain, washing leaves,
and grasses, and any such small yieldings of the earth that could
be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor were not
wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax
for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and
to be paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little
village, until the wonder was that there was any village left
tmswallowed.
vin — 293
4674
CHARLES DICKENS
Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men
and women, their choice on earth was stated in the prospect —
Life on the lowest terms that could sustain it, down in the little
village under the mill; or captivity and Death in the dominant
prison on the crag.
Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his
postilions' whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the
evening air, as if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur
the Marquis drew up in his traveling carriage at the posting-
house gate. It was hard by the fountain, and the peasants
suspended their operations to look at him. He looked at them,
and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow sure filing down
of misery- worn face and figure, that was to make the meagreness
of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the
truth through the best part of a hundred years.
Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces
that drooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped
before Monseigneur of the Court — only the difference was, that
these faces drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate — when
a grizzled mender of the roads joined the group.
w Bring me hither that fellow ! w said the Marquis to the courier.
The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows
closed round to look and listen, in the manner of the people at
the Paris fountain.
w I passed you on the road ? w
(< Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honor of being passed
on the road.w
<( Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both ? w
0 Monseigneur, it is true. w
<( What did you look at so fixedly ? *
<( Monseigneur, I looked at the man. w
He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed
under the carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the
carriage.
(< What man, pig ? And why look there ? "
" Pardon, Monseigneur ; he swung by the chain of the shoe —
the drag.w
w Who ? * demanded the traveler.
<( Monseigneur, the man.0
w May the Devil carry away these idiots ! How do you call
the man ? You know all the men of this part of the country.
Who was he?®
CHARLES DICKENS
4675
<(Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of
the country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him. w
<( Swinging by the chain ? To be suffocated ? w
(< With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it,
Monseigneur. His head hanging over — like this ! w
He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back,
with his face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down;
then recovered himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
« What was he like ? w
(< Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered
with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre !w
The picture produced an immense sensation in the little
crowd; but all eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes,
looked at Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps to observe whether he
had any spectre on his conscience.
<( Truly, you did well,* said the Marquis, felicitously sensible
that such vermin were not to ruffle him, (< to see a thief accom-
panying my carriage, and not open that great mouth of yours.
Bah ! Put him aside, Monsieur Gabelle ! w
Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster and some other taxing
functionary, united; he had come out with great obsequiousness
to assist at this examination, and had held the examined by the
drapery of his arm in an official manner.
(< Bah ! Go aside ! w said Monsieur Gabelle.
<( Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your
village to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.*
(< Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your
orders. w
(< Did he run away, fellow ? — where is that Accursed ? w
The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-
dozen particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap.
Some half-dozen other particular friends promptly haled him out,
and presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
<( Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the
drag ? *
(( Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head
first, as a person plunges into the river. w
«See to it, Gabelle. Go on!*
The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still
among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly
that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had
very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.
4676
CHARLES DICKENS
The burst with which the carriage started out of the village
and up the rise beyond was soon checked by the steepness of the
hill. Gradually it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lum-
bering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night.
The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about
them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the
lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier
was audible, trotting on ahead into the dim distance.
At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-
ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of our Saviour on
it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced
rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life — his
own life, maybe — for it was dreadfully spare and thin.
To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long
been growing worse and was not at its worst, a woman was
kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her,
rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage door.
"It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition. w
With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable
face, Monseigneur looked out.
(< How, then ! What is it ? Always petitions ! M
w Monseigneur. For the love of the great God ! My husband,
the forester.*
"What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with
you people. He cannot pay something ? M
" He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead. M
w Well ! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you ? w
"Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little
heap of poor grass. "
" Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass ! *
" Again, well ? *
She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner
was one of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous
and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of
them on the carriage door — tenderly, caressingly, as if it had
been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the ap-
pealing touch.
" Monseigneur, hear me ! Monseigneur, hear my petition ! My
husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will
die of want.w
(( Again, well ? Can I feed them ? w
CHARLES DICKENS 4677
"Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My
petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's
name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Other-
wise the place will be quickly forgotten; it will never be found
when I am dead of the same malady; I shall be laid under
some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many,
they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!
Monseigneur ! w
The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had
broken into a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace;
she was left far behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the
Furies, was rapidly diminishing the league or two of distance
that remained between him and his chateau.
The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him,
and rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and
toil-worn group at the fountain not far away; to whom the
mender of roads, with the aid of the blue cap without which he
was nothing, still enlarged upon his man like a spectre as long
as they could bear it. By degrees, as they could bear no more,
they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled in little case-
ments; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more stars
came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having
been extinguished.
The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-
hanging trees, was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and
the shadow was exchanged for the light of a flambeau, as his
carriage stopped, and the great door of his chateau was opened
to him.
<( Monsieur Charles, whom I expect ; is he arrived from Eng-
land? »
<( Monseigneur, not yet. w
THE GORGON'S HEAD
It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the
Marquis, with a large stone court-yard before it, and two stone
sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the prin-
cipal door. A stony business altogether, with heavy stone balus-
trades, and stone urns, and stone flowers, and stone faces of men,
and stone heads of lions, in all directions. As if the Gorgon's
head had surveyed it when it was finished two centuries ago.
4678
CHARLES DICKENS
Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis,
flambeau-preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing
the darkness to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof
of the great pile of stable-building away among the trees. All
else was so quiet that the flambeau carried up the steps, and the
other flambeau held at the great door, burnt as if they were in a
close room of state, instead of being in the open night air.
Other sound than the owl's voice there was none, save the falling
of a fountain into its stone basin; for it was one of those dark
nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Mar-
quis crossed a hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and
knives of the chase; grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and
riding-whips, of which many a peasant, gone to his benefactor
Death, had felt the weight when his lord was angry.
Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast
for the night, Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer
going on before, went up the staircase to a door in a corridor.
This thrown open admitted him to his own private apartment
of three rooms; his bedchamber and two others. High vaulted
rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon the hearths
for the burning of wood in winter-time, and all luxuries befitting
the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country. The
fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
break — the fourteenth Louis — was conspicuous in their rich
furniture; but it was diversified by many objects that were illus-
trations of old pages in the history of France.
A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a
round room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped
towers. A small lofty room, with its window wide open, and the
wooden jalousie-blinds closed, so that the dark night only showed
in slight horizontal lines of black, alternating with their broad
lines of stone-color.
(< My nephew, w said the Marquis, glancing at the supper prepa-
ration ; (< they said he was not arrived. "
Nor was he; but he had been expected with Monseigneur.
<(Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless,
leave the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour. M
In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down
alone to his sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was
CHARLES DICKENS
4679
opposite to the window, and he had taken his soup and was rais-
ing his glass of Bordeaux to his lips, when he put it down.
(< What is that ? w he calmly asked, looking with attention at
the horizontal lines of black and stone-color.
« Monseigneur ? That ? »
<( Outside the blinds. Open the blinds. w
It was done.
« Well ? »
(< Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all
that are here. w
The servant who spoke had thrown the blinds wide, had
looked out into the vacant darkness, and stood, with that blank
behind him, looking round for instructions.
<( Good, w said the imperturbable master. (< Close them again. w
That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper.
He was half-way through it, when he again stopped with his
glass in his hand, hearing the sound of wheels. It came on
briskly, and came up to the front of the chateau.
(< Ask who is arrived. w
It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few
leagues behind Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had
diminished the distance rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up
with Monseigneur on the road. He had heard of Monseigneur,
at the posting-houses, as being before him.
He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him
then and there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a
little while he came. He had been known in England as Charles
Darnay.
Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did
not shake hands.
<( You left Paris yesterday, sir ? w he said to Monseigneur, as
he took his seat at table.
(( Yesterday. And you ? "
(< I come direct. w
w From London ? w
« Yes. »
(< You have been a long time coming, w said the Marquis, with
a smile.
<(On the contrary; I come direct. w
w Pardon me ! I mean, not a long time on the journey ; a long
time intending the journey.*
4680
CHARLES DICKENS
" I have been detained by " — the nephew stopped a moment
in his answer — "various business."
"Without doubt," said the polished uncle.
So long as a servant was present, no other words passed
between them. When coffee had been served and they were
alone together, the nephew, looking at the uncle and meeting
the eyes of the face that was like a fine mask, opened a conver-
sation.
<( I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object
that took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected
peril; but it is a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death
I hope it would have sustained me. "
" Not to death, M said the uncle ; (< it is not necessary to say,
to death. "
<( I doubt, sir," returned the nephew, "whether, if it had car-
ried me to the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to
stop me there."
The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of
the fine straight lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to
that; the uncle made a graceful gesture of protest, which was so
clearly a slight form of good breeding that it was not reassuring.
* Indeed, sir, " pursued the nephew, " for anything I know,
you may have expressly worked to give a more suspicious ap-
pearance to the suspicious circumstances that surrounded me."
" No, no, no, " said the uncle pleasantly.
" But, however that may be," resumed the nephew, glancing
at him with deep distrust, " I know that your diplomacy would
stop me by any means, and would know no scruple as to
means. "
"My friend, I told you so," said the uncle, with a fine pulsa-
tion in the two marks. " Do me the favor to recall that I told
you so, long ago."
"I recall it.w
"Thank you," said the Marquis — very sweetly indeed.
His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
instrument.
"In effect, sir," pursued the nephew, "I believe it to be at
once your bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me
out of a prison in France here."
" I do not quite understand, " returned the uncle, sipping his
coffee. " Dare I ask you to explain ? "
CHARLES DICKENS 4681
<{ I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the court,
and had not been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a
lettre de cachet would have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.0
(< It is possible, " said the uncle, with great calmness. <( For
the honor of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you
to that extent. Pray excuse me ! "
(< I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day
before yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,8 observed the
nephew.
<( I would not say happily, my friend, " returned the uncle,
with refined politeness ; (< I would not be sure of that. A good
opportunity for consideration, surrounded by the advantages of
solitude, might influence your destiny to far greater advantage
than you influence it for yourself. But it is useless to discuss
the question. I am, as you say, at a disadvantage. These little
instruments of correction, these gentle aids to the power and
honor of families, these slight favors that might so incommode
you, are only to be obtained now by interest and importunity.
They are sought by so many, and they are granted (compara-
tively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held
the right of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From
this room, many such dogs have been taken out to be hanged;
in the next room (my bedroom), one fellow, to our knowledge,
was poniarded on the spot for professing some insolent delicacy
respecting his daughter — his daughter! We have lost many
privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the as-
sertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far
as to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All
very bad, very bad ! "
The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff and shook
his head; as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be,
of a country still containing himself, that great means of regen-
eration.
<(We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and
in the modern time also, " said the nephew, gloomily, * that I
believe our name to be more detested than any name in France."
« Let us hope so, " said the uncle. (< Detestation of the high
is the involuntary homage of the low."
"There is not," pursued the nephew, in his former tone, (<a
face I can look at, in all this country round about us, which
4682
CHARLES DICKENS
looks at me with any deference on it but the dark deference of
fear and slavery."
<( A compliment, " said the Marquis, w to the grandeur of the
family, merited by the manner in which the family has sustained
its grandeur. Hah ! " And he took another gentle little pinch of
snuff, and lightly crossed his legs.
But when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, cov-
ered his eyes thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine
mask looked at him sideways with a stronger concentration of
keenness, closeness, and dislike than was comportable with its
wearer's assumption of indifference.
w Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark defer-
ence of fear and slavery, my friend," observed the Marquis,
"will keep the dogs obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,"
looking up to it, w shuts out the sky. "
That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a
picture of the chateau as it was to be a very few years hence,
and of fifty like it as they too were to be a very few years
hence, could have been shown to him that night, he might have
been at a loss to claim his own from the ghastly, fire-charred,
plunder-wrecked ruins. As for the roof he vaunted, he might
have found that shutting out the sky in a new way — to wit, for-
ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead was fired,
out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
"Meanwhile," said the Marquis, "I will preserve the honor
and repose of the family, if you will not. But you must be
fatigued. Shall we terminate our conference for the night ? "
" A moment more. "
"An hour if you please."
"Sir," said the nephew, (<we have done wrong, and are reap-
ing the fruits of wrong."
" We have done wrong ? " repeated the Marquis, with an
inquiring smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then
to himself.
"Our family; our honorable family, whose honor is of so
much account to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my
father's time we did a world of wrong, injuring every human
creature who came between us and our pleasure, whatever it
was. Why need I speak of my father's time, when it is equally
yours ? Can I separate my father's twin brother, joint inheritor,
and next successor, from himself ? "
CHARLES DICKENS
4683
<( Death has done that ! " said the Marquis.
<( And has left me, w answered the nephew, (< bound to a sys-
tem that is frightful to me, responsible for it but powerless in it;
seeking to execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and
obey the last look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me
to have mercy and to redress; and tortured by seeking assistance
and power in vain."
(< Seeking them from me, my nephew, " said the Marquis, touch-
ing him on the breast with his forefinger, — they were now stand-
ing by the hearth, — (< you will forever seek them in vain, be
assured. "
Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face was
cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again
he touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine
point of a small sword, with which in delicate finesse he ran
him through the body, and said, (< My friend, I will die perpetu-
ating the system under which I have lived. "
When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff,
and put his box in his pocket.
(< Better to be a rational creature," he added then, after ring-
ing a small bell on the table, <(and accept your natural destiny.
But you are lost, Monsieur Charles, I see."
(< This property and France are lost to me, w said the nephew,
sadly; (< I renounce them."
(< Are they both yours to renounce ? France may be, but is
the property ? It is scarcely worth mentioning ; but is it, yet ? *
(<I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If
it passed to me from you to-morrow — "
(< Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable."
(< — or twenty years hence — "
(<You do me too much honor," said the Marquis; (< still, I
prefer that siipposition. "
(( — I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It
is little to relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and
ruin ! "
(( Hah ! " said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
<(To the eye it is fair enough here; but seen in its integrity,
under the sky and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of
waste, mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression,
hunger, nakedness, and suffering."
4684
CHARLES DICKENS
<( Hah ! " said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
(< If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands
better qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible)
from the weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people
who cannot leave it, and who have been long wrung to the
last point of endurance, may in another generation suffer less; but
it is not for me. There is a curse on it, and on all this land."
(<And you?" said the uncle. "Forgive my curiosity; do you,
under your new philosophy, graciously intend to live ? "
<( I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even
with nobility at their backs, may have to do some day — work."
(< In England, for example ? w
<( Yes. The family honor, sir, is safe for me in this country.
The family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it
in no other."
The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bedchamber
to be lighted. It now shone brightly through the door of com-
munication. The Marquis looked that way, and listened for the
retreating step of his valet.
<( England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently
you have prospered there," he observed then, turning his calm
face to his nephew with a smile.
w I have already said that for my prospering there, I am
sensible I may be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my
Refuge."
"They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of
many. You know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there ?
A Doctor?"
«Yes.»
<(With a daughter?"
«Yes.»
(<Yes," said the Marquis. "You are fatigued. Good-night!"
As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a
secrecy in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery
to those words, which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew
forcibly. At the same time, the thin straight lines of the set-
ting of the eyes, and the thin straight lips, and the markings in
the nose, curved with a sarcasm that looked handsomely diabolic.
<(Yes," repeated the Marquis. <(A Doctor with a daughter.
Yes. So commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued.
Good-night ! »
CHARLES DICKENS
4685
It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone
fence outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his.
The nephew looked at him in vain, in passing on to the door.
<( Good-night ! w said the uncle. (< I look to the pleasure of
seeing you again in the morning. Good repose ! Light Monsieur
my nephew to his chamber, there! — And burn Monsieur my
nephew in his bed, if you will,® he added to himself, before he
rang his little bell again, and summoned his valet to his own
bedroom.
The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to
and fro in his loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for
sleep, that hot still night. Rustling about the room, his softly-
slippered feet making no noise on the floor, he moved like a
refined tiger ; — looked like some enchanted marquis of the im-
penitently wicked sort, in story, whose periodical change into
tiger form was either just going off or just coming on.
He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, look-
ing again at the scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden
into his mind; the slow toil up the hill at sunset, the setting
sun, the descent, the mill, the prison on the crag, the little vil-
lage in the hollow, the peasants at the fountain, and the mender
of roads with his blue cap pointing out the chain under the
carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain, the little
bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
tall man with his arms up, crying, (< Dead ! w
(< I am cool now, }> said Monsieur the Marquis, (< and may go
to bed.»
So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let
his thin gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night
break its silence with a long sigh as he composed himself to
sleep.
The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black
night for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours the horses
in the stables rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl
made a noise with very little resemblance in it to the noise con-
ventionally assigned to the owl by men-poets. But it is the
obstinate custom of such creatures hardly ever to say what is set
down for them.
For three heavy hours the stone faces of the chateau, lion and
human, stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the
landscape, dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust
4686
CHARLES DICKENS
on all the roads. The burial-place had got to the pass that its
little heaps of poor grass were undistinguishable from one an-
other; the figure on the Cross might have come down, for any-
thing that could be seen of it. In the village, taxers and taxed
were fast asleep. Dreaming perhaps of banquets, as the starved
usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and the
yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed
and freed.
The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and
the fountain at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard — both
melting away, like the minutes that were falling from the spring
of Time — through three dark hours. Then the gray water of
both began to be ghostly in the light, and the eyes of the stone
faces of the chateau were opened.
Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of
the still trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the
glow, the water of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood,
and the stone faces crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud
and high, and on the weather-beaten sill of the great window of
the bed-chamber of Monsieur the Marquis, one little bird sang its
sweetest song with all its might. At this, the nearest stone face
seemed to stare amazed, and with open mouth and dropped under-
jaw, looked awe-stricken.
Now the sun was full up, and movement began in the village.
Casement windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and peo-
ple came forth shivering — chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air.
Then began the rarely lightened toil of the day among the vil-
lage population. Some to the fountain; some to the fields; men
and women here to dig and delve; men and women there to see
to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows out to such pasture
as could be found by the roadside. In the church and at the
Cross a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter prayers,
the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its foot.
The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke
gradually and surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of
the chase had been reddened as of old; then had gleamed trench-
ant in the morning sunshine; now doors and windows were
thrown open, horses in their stables looked round over their
shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at doorways, leaves
sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled hard at
their chains and reared, impatient to be loosed.
CHARLES DICKENS
4687
All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life and
the return of morning. Surely not so the ringing of the great
bell of the chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs, nor
the hurried figures on the terrace, nor the booting and tramping
here and there and everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses
and riding away ?
What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of
roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with
his day's dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it
was worth no crow's while to peck at, on a heap of stones ?
Had the birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped
one over him as they sow chance seeds ? Whether or no, the
mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got
to the fountain.
All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing
about in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but show-
ing no other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led
cows, hastily brought in and tethered to anything that would
hold them, were looking stupidly on, or lying down chewing the
cud of nothing particularly repaying their trouble, which they
had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of the people
of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and all
the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were
crowded on the other side of the little street in a purposeless
way that was highly fraught with nothing. Already the mender
of roads had penetrated into the midst of a group of fifty par-
ticular friends, and was smiting himself in the breast with his
blue cap. What did all this portend, and what portended the
swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant on horse-
back, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle (double-laden
though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of the
German ballad of Leonora ?
It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at
the chateau.
The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night,
and had added the one stone face wanting; the stone face for
which it had waited through about two hundred years.
It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was
like a fine mask, suddenly started, made angry, and petrified.
4688
CHARLES DICKENS
Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached to it,
was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of paper, on which was
scrawled : —
* Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from JACQUES. "
THE IVY GREEN
OH, A dainty plant is the Ivy Green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the moldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a stanch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak-Tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mold of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
4689
DENIS DIDEROT
(1713-1784)
(MONO the French Encyclopaedists of the eighteenth century
Denis Diderot holds the place of leader. There were intel-
lects of broader scope and of much surer balance in that
famous group, but none of such versatility, brilliancy, and outburst-
ing force. To his associates he was a marvel and an inspiration.
He was born in October 1713, in Langres, Haute-Marne, France;
and died in Paris July 3ist, 1784. After a classical education in Jes-
uit schools, he utterly disgusted his father by turning to the Bohe-
mian life of a litterateur in Paris. Although
very poor, he married at the age of thirty.
The whole story of his married life — the
common Parisian story in those days —
reflects no credit on him; though his liaison
with Mademoiselle Voland presents the as-
pects of a friendship abiding through life.
Poverty spurred him to exertion. Four
days of work in 1746 are said to have pro-
duced ( Pensees Philosophiques ) (Philosophic
Thoughts). This book, with a little essay
following it, interpretation de la Nature, >
was his first open attack on revealed re-
ligion. Its argument, though only negative,
and keeping within the bounds of theism,
foretokened a class of utterances which were frequent in Diderot's
later years, and whose assurance of his materialistic atheism would
be complete had they not been too exclamatory for settled convic-
tion. He contents himself with glorifying the passions, to the annul-
ling of all ethical standards. On this point at least his convictions
were stable, for long afterward he writes thus to Mademoiselle Vo-
land:— (<The man of mediocre passion lives and dies like the brute.
. . . If we were bound to choose between Racine, a bad husband,
a bad father, a false friend, and a sublime poet, and Racine, good
father, good husband, good friend, and dull worthy man, I hold to
the first. Of Racine the bad man, what remains? Nothing. Of Ra-
cine the man of genius ? The work is eternal. w
About 1747 he produced an allegory, l Promenade du Sceptique. '
This French < Pilgrim's Progress > scoffs- at the Church of Rome for
vin — 294
DENIS DIDEROT
4690
DENIS DIDEROT
denying pleasure, then decries the pleasures of the world, and ends
by asserting the hopeless uncertainty of the philosophy which both
scoffs at the Church and decries worldly pleasure. At this period he
was evidently inclined to an irregular attack on the only forms of
Christianity familiar to him, asceticism and pietism.
In 1749 Diderot first showed himself a thinker of original power,
in his Letter on the Blind. This work, ( Lettre sur les Aveugles
a 1'Usage de Ceux qui Voient * (Letter on the Blind for the Use of
Those who See) opened the eyes of the public to Diderot's peculiar
genius, and the eyes of the authorities to the menace in his princi-
ples. The result was his imprisonment, and from that the spread of
his views. His offense was, that through his ingenious supposition of
the mind deprived of its use of one or more of the bodily senses,
he had shown the relativity of all man's conceptions, and had thence
deduced the relativity, the lack of absoluteness, of all man's ethical
standards — thus invalidating the foundations of civil and social order.
The broad assertion that Diderot and his philosophic group caused
the French Revolution has only this basis, that these men were
among the omens of its advance, feeling its stir afar but not recog-
nizing the coming earthquake. Yet it may be conceded that Diderot
anticipated things great and strange; for his mind, although neither
precise nor capable of sustained and systematic thought, was amaz-
ingly original in conception and powerful in grasp. The mist, blank
to his brethren, seems to have wreathed itself into wonderful shapes
to his eye; he was the seer whose wild enthusiasm caught the oracles
from an inner shrine. A predictive power appears in his Letter on
the Blind, where he imagines the blind taught to read by touch; and
nineteenth-century hypotheses gleam dimly in his random guess at
variability in organisms, and at survival of those best adapted to
their environment.
Diderot's monumental work, ^'Encyclopedic,* dates from the mid-
dle of the century. It was his own vast enlargement of Ephraim
Chambers's Cyclopaedia of 1727, of which a bookseller had demanded
a revision in French. D'Alembert was secured as his colleague, and
in 1751 the first volume appeared. The list of contributors includes
most of the great contemporary names in French literature. From
these, Diderot and D'Alembert gathered the inner group known as
the French Encyclopaedists, to whose writings has been ascribed a
general tendency to destroy religion and to reconstitute society.
The authorities interfered repeatedly, with threats and prohibitions
of the publication; but the science of government included the sci-
ence of connivance for an adequate consideration, and the great
work went forward. Its danger lurked in its principles; for Diderot
dealt but little in the cheap flattery which the modern demagogue
DENIS DIDEROT
4691
addresses to the populace. D'Alembert, wearied by ten years of per-
secution, retired in 1759, leaving the indefatigable Diderot to struggle
alone through seven years, composing and revising hundreds of
articles, correcting proofs, supervising the unrivaled illustrations of
the mechanic arts, while quieting the opposition of the authorities.
The Encyclopaedia under Diderot followed no one philosophic
path. Indeed, there are no signs that he ever gave any considera-
tion to either the intellectual or the ethical force of consistency.
His writing indicates his utter carelessness both as to the direction
and as to the pace of his thought. He had an abiding conviction
that Christianity was partly delusion and largely priestcraft, and was
maintained chiefly for upholding iniquitous privilege. His antagonism
was developed primarily from his emotions and sympathies rather
than from his intellect; hence it sometimes swerved, drawing peril-
ously near to formal orthodoxy. Moreover, this vivacious philosopher
sometimes rambled into practical advice, and easily effervesced into
fervid moralizings of the sentimental and almost tearful sort. His
immense natural capacity for sentiment appears in his own account
of his meeting with Grimm after a few months' absence. His sen-
timentalism, however, had its remarkable counterpoise in a most
practical tendency of mind. In the Encyclopaedia the interests of
agriculture and of all branches of manufacture were treated with
great fullness; and the reform of feudal abuses lingering in the laws
of France was vigorously urged in a style more practical than cyclo-
paedic.
Diderot gave much attention to the drama, and his (Paradoxe sur
le Comedien > (Paradox on the Actor) is a valuable discussion. He is
the father of the modern domestic drama. His influence upon the
dramatic literature of Germany was direct and immediate ; it appeared
in the plays of Lessing and Schiller, and much of Lessing's criticism
was inspired by Diderot. His < Pere de Famille > (Family-Father) and
*Le Fils NatureP (The Natural Son) marked the beginning of a new
era in the history of the stage, in the midst of which we are now
living. Breaking with the old traditions, Diderot abandoned the lofty
themes of classic tragedy and portrayed the life of the bourgeoisie,
The influence of England, frequently manifest in the work of the
Encyclopaedists, is evident also here. Richardson was then the chief
force in fiction, and the sentimental element so characteristic in him
reappears in the dramas of Diderot.
Goethe was strongly attracted by the genius of Diderot, and
thought it worth his while not only to translate but to supply with
a long and luminous commentary the latter's ( Essay on Painting. >
It was by a singular trick of fortune, too, that one of Diderot's
most powerful works should first have appeared in German garb, and
4692
DENIS DIDEROT
not in the original French until after the author's death. A manu-
script copy of the book chanced to fall into the hands of Goethe,
who so greatly admired it that he at once translated, annotated,
and published it. This was the famous dialogue ( Le Neveu de
Rameau* (Rameau's Nephew), a work which only Diderot's peculiar
genius could have produced. Depicting the typical parasite, shame-
less, quick-witted for every species of villainy, at home in every pos-
sible meanness, the dialogue is a probably unequaled compound of
satire, high aesthetics, gleaming humor, sentimental moralizing, fine
musical criticism, and scientific character analysis, with passages of
brutal indecency.
Among literary critics of painting, Diderot has his place in the
highest rank. His nine Galons* — criticisms which in his good-nature
he wrote for the use of his friend Grimm, on the annual exhibitions
in the Paris Salon from 1759 onward — have never been surpassed
among non-technical criticisms for brilliancy, freshness, and philo-
sophic suggestiveness. They reveal the man's elemental strength ;
which was not in his knowledge, for he was without technical train-
ing in art and had seen scarcely any of the world's masterpieces,
but in his sensuously sympathetic nature, which gave him quickness
of insight and delicacy in interpretation.
He had the faculty of making and keeping friends, being un-
affected, genial, amiable, enthusiastically generous and helpful to his
friends, and without vindictiveness to his foes. He needed these
qualities to counteract his almost utter lack of conscientiousness, his
gush of sentiment, his unregulated morals, his undisciplined genius,
his unbalanced thought. His style of writing, often vivid and strong,
is as often awkward and dull, and is frequently lacking in finish.
As a philosophic author and thinker his voluminous work is of little
enduring worth, for though plentiful in original power it totally lacks
organic unity; his thought rambles carelessly, his method is con-
fused. It has been said of him that he was a master who produced
no masterpiece. But as a talker, a converser, all witnesses testify
that he was wondrously inspiring and suggestive, speaking sometimes
as from mysterious heights of vision or out of unsearchable deeps of
thought.
DENIS DIDEROT 4693
FROM <RAMEAU'S NEPHEW >
BE THE weather fair or foul, it is my custom in any case at
five o'clock in the afternoon to stroll in the Palais Royal.
I am always to be seen alone and meditative, on the bench
D'Argenson. I hold converse with myself on politics or love, on
taste or philosophy, and yield up my soul entirely to its own
frivolity. It may follow the first idea that presents itself, be the
idea wise or foolish. In the Alle"e de Foi one sees our young
rakes following upon the heels of some courtesan who passes on
with shameless mien, laughing face, animated glance, and a pug
nose; but they soon leave her to follow another, teasing them
all, joining none of them. My thoughts are my courtesans.
When it is really too cold or rainy, I take refuge in the Cafe
de la Regence and amuse myself by watching the chess-players.
Paris is the place of the world and the Cafe de la Regence the
place of Paris where the best chess is played. There one wit-
nesses the most carefully calculated moves; there one hears the
most vulgar conversation; for since it is possible to be at once
a man of intellect and a great chess-player, like Legal, so also
one may be at once a great chess-player and a very silly person,
like Foubert or Mayot.
One afternoon I was there, observing much, speaking rarely,
and hearing as little as possible, when one of the most singular
personages came up to me that ever was produced by this land
of ours, where surely God has never caused a dearth of singular
characters. He is a combination of high-mindedness and base-
ness, of sound understanding and folly; in his head the concep-
tions of honor and dishonor must be strangely tangled, for the
good qualities with which nature has endowed him he displays
without boastfulness, and the bad qualities without shame. For
the rest, he is firmly built, has an extraordinary power of im-
agination, and possesses an uncommonly strong pair of lungs.
Should you ever meet him and succeed in escaping from the
charm of his originality, it must be by stopping both ears with
your fingers or by precipitate flight. Heavens, what terrible
lungs !
And nothing is less like him than he himself. Sometimes he
is thin and wasted, like a man in the last stages of consump-
tion; you could count his teeth through his cheeks; you would
4694
DENIS DIDEROT
think he had not tasted food for several days, or had come from
La Trappe.
A month later he is fattened and filled out as if he had never
left the banquets of the rich or had been fed among the Ber-
nardines. To-day, with soiled linen, torn trousers, clad in rags,
and almost barefoot, he passes with bowed head, avoids those
whom he meets, till one is tempted to call him and bestow upon
him an alms. To-morrow, powdered, well groomed, well dressed,
and well shod, he carries his head high, lets himself be seen, and
you would take him almost for a respectable man.
So he lives from day to day, sad or merry, according to the
circumstances. His first care, when he rises in the morning, is
to take thought where he is to dine. After dinner he bethinks
himself of some opportunity to procure supper, and with the night
come new cares. Sometimes he goes on foot to his little attic,
which is his home if the landlady, impatient at long arrears of
rent, has not taken the key away from him. Sometimes he goes
to one of the taverns in the suburbs, and there, between a bit of
bread and a mug of beer, awaits the day. If he lacks the six
sous necessary to procure him quarters for the night, which is
occasionally the case, he applies to some cabman among his
friends or to the coachman of some great lord, and a place on the
straw beside the horses is vouchsafed him. In the morning he
carries a part of his mattress in his hair. If the season is mild,
he spends the whole night strolling back and forth on the Cours
or in the Champs Elys6es. With the day he appears again in
the city, dressed yesterday for to-day and to-day often for the
rest of the week.
For such originals I cannot feel much esteem, but there are
others who make close acquaintances and even friends of them.
Once in the year perhaps they are able to put their spell upon
me, when I meet them, because their character is in such strong
contrast to that of every-day humanity, and they break the oppress-
ive monotony which our education, our social conventions, our
traditional proprieties have produced. When such a man enters
a company, he acts like a cake of yeast that raises the whole, and
restores to each a part of his natural individuality. He shakes
them up, brings things into motion, elicits praise or censure,
drives truth into the open, makes upright men recognizable, un-
masks the rogues, and there the wise man sits and listens and is
enabled to distinguish one class from another.
DENIS DIDEROT
4695
This particular specimen I had long known; he frequented a
house into which his talents had secured him the entrde. These
people had an only daughter. He swore to the parents that he
would marry their daughter. They only shrugged their shoul-
ders, laughed in his face, and assured him that he was a fool.
But I saw the day come when the thing was accomplished. He
asked me for some money, which I gave him. He had, I know
not how, squirmed his way into a few houses, where a convert
stood always ready for him, but it had been stipulated that he
should never speak without the consent of his hosts. So there he
sat and ate, filled the while with malice; it was fun to see him
under this restraint. The moment he ventured to break the
treaty and open his mouth, at the very first word the guests all
shouted (< O Rameau ! w Then his eyes flashed wrathfully, and he
fell upon his food again with renewed energy.
You were curious to know the man's name; there it is. He
is the nephew of the famous composer who has saved us from
the church music of Lulli which we have been chanting for a
hundred years, . . . and who, having buried the Florentine,
will himself be buried by Italian virtuosi ; he dimly feels this, and
so has become morose and irritable, for no one can be in a worse
humor — not even a beautiful woman who in the morning finds
a pimple on her nose — than an author who sees himself threat-
ened with the fate of outliving his reputation, as Marivaux and
Crebillon fils prove.
Rameau's nephew came up to me. ((Ah, my philosopher, do
I meet you once again ? What are you doing here among the
good-for-nothings ? Are you wasting your time pushing bits of
wood about ? w
/ — No; but when I have nothing better to do, I take a
passing pleasure in watching those who push them about with
skill.
He — A rare pleasure, surely. Excepting Legal and Philidor,
there is no one here that understands it. ...
/ — You are hard to please. I see that only the best finds
favor with you.
He — Yes, in chess, checkers, poetry, oratory, music, and such
other trumpery. Of what possible use is mediocrity in these
things ?
/ — I am almost ready to agree with you. . . .
4696
DENIS DIDEROT
He — You have always shown some interest in me, because
I'm a poor devil whom you really despise, but who after all
amuses you.
/ — That is true.
He — Then let me tell you. (Before beginning, he drew a
deep sigh, covered his forehead with both hands, then with calm
countenance continued: — ) You know I am ignorant, foolish,
silly, shameless, rascally, gluttonous.
/ — What a panegyric!
He — It is entirely true. Not a word to be abated; no con-
tradiction, I pray you. No one knows me better than I know
myself, and I don't tell all.
/ — Rather than anger you, I will assent.
He — Now, just think, I lived with people who valued me pre-
cisely because all these qualities were mine in a high degree.
/ — That is most remarkable. I have hitherto believed that
people concealed these qualities even from themselves, or excused
them, but alw"ays despised them in others.
He — Conceal them? Is that possible? You may be sure that
when Palissot is alone and contemplates himself, he tells quite a
different story. You may be sure that he and his companion
make open confession to each other that they are a pair of arrant
rogues. Despise these qualities in others ? My people were much
more reasonable, and I fared excellently well among them.
I was cock of the walk. When absent, I was instantly missed. I
was pampered. I was their little Rameau, their good Rameau,
the shameless, ignorant, lazy Rameau, the fool, the clown, the
gourmand. Each of these epithets was to me a smile, a caress, a
slap on the back, a box on the ears, a kick, a dainty morsel
thrown upon my plate at dinner, a liberty permitted me after
dinner as if it were of no account; for I am of no account.
People make of me and do before me and with me whatever
they please, and I never give it a thought. . . .
/ — You have been giving lessons, I understand, in accom-
paniment and composition ?
He— Yes.
/ — And you knew absolutely nothing about it?
He — No, by Heaven; and for that very reason I was a much
better teacher than those who imagine they know something
about it. At all events, I didn't spoil the taste nor ruin the hands
DENIS DIDEROT
4697
of my young pupils. If when they left me they went to a com-
petent master, they had nothing to unlearn, for they had learned
nothing, and that was just so much time and money saved.
/ — But how did you do it ?
He — The way they all do it. I came, threw myself into a
chair : — <( How bad the weather is ! How tired the pavement
makes one ! * Then some scraps of town gossip : . . . <( At
the last Amateur Concert there was an Italian woman who sang
like an angel. . . . Poor Dumenil doesn't know what to say
or do,* etc., etc. . . . <(Come, mademoiselle, where is your
music-book ? * And as mademoiselle displays no great haste,
searches every nook and corner for the book, which she has mis-
laid, and finally calls the maid to help her, I continue : — <( Little
Clairon is an enigma. There is talk of a perfectly absurd mar-
riage of — what is her name?* — (< Nonsense, Rameau, it isn't
possible. * — "They say the affair is all settled.* . . . "There
is a nimor that Voltaire is dead. * — (< All the better. * — (< Why
all the better ? * — (< Then he is sure to treat us to some droll
skit. That's a way he has, a fortnight before his death. * What
more should I say ? I told a few scandals about the families in
the houses where I am received, for we are all great scandal-
mongers. In short, I played the fool ; they listened and laughed,
and exclaimed, (< He is really too droll, isn't he ? * Meanwhile
the music-book had been found under a chair, where a little dog
or a little cat had worried it, chewed it, and torn it. Then the
pretty child sat down at the piano and began to make a frightful
noise upon it. I went up to her, secretly making a sign of
approbation to her mother. <(Well, now, that isn't so bad,* said
the mother; (<one needs only to make up one's mind to a thing;
but the trouble is, one will not make up one's mind; one would
rather kill time by chattering, trifling, running about, and God
knows what. Scarcely do you turn your back but the book is
closed, and not until you are at her side again is it opened.
Besides, I have never heard you reprimand her.* In the mean
time, since something had to be done, I took her hands and
placed them differently. I pretended to lose my patience; I
shouted, — "Sol, sol, sol, mademoiselle, it's a sol.* The mother:
" Mademoiselle, have you no ears ? I'm not at the piano, I'm
not looking at your notes, but my own feeling tells me that it
ought to be a sol. You give the gentleman infinite trouble.
You remember nothing, and make no progress.* To break the
4698
DENIS DIDEROT
force of this reproof a little, I tossed my head and said : w Pardon
me, madame, pardon me. It would be better if mademoiselle
would only practice a little, but after all it is not so bad. w — (< In
your place J would keep her a whole year at one piece. M — w Rest
assured, I shall not let her off until she has mastered every diffi-
culty; and that will not take so long, perhaps, as mademoiselle
thinks. }) — "Monsieur Rameau, you flatter her; you are too good."
And that is the only thing they would remember of the whole
lesson, and would upon occasion repeat to me. So the lesson
came to an end. My pupil handed me the fee, with a graceful
gesture and a courtesy which her dancing-master had taught her.
I put the money into my pocket, and the mother said, " That's
very nice, mademoiselle. If Favillier were here, he would praise
you.w For appearance's sake I chattered for a minute or two
more; then I vanished; and that is what they called in those
days a lesson in accompaniment.
/ — And is the case different now ?
He — Heavens! I should think so. I come in, I am serious,
throw my muff aside, open the piano, try the keys, show signs
of great impatience, and if I am kept a moment waiting I shout
as if my purse had been stolen. In an hour I must be there or
there; in two hours with the Duchess So-and-so; at noon I must
go to the fair Marquise; and then there is to be a concert at
Baron de Bagge's, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs.
/ — And meanwhile no one expects you at all.
He — Certainly not. . . . And precisely because I can
further my fortune through vices which come natural to me,
which I acquired without labor and practice without effort, which
are in harmony with the customs of my countrymen, which are
quite to the taste of my patrons, and better adapted to their
special needs than inconvenient virtues would be, which from
morning to night would be standing accusations against them, it
would be strange indeed if I should torture myself like one of
the damned to twist and turn and make of myself something
which I am not, and hide myself beneath a character foreign to
me, and assume the most estimable qualities, whose worth I will
not dispute, but which I could acquire and live up to only by
great exertions, and which after all would lead to nothing, — per-
haps to worse than nothing. Moreover, ought a beggar like me,
who lives upon the wealthy, constantly to hold up to his patrons
a mirror of good conduct ? People praise virtue but hate it ; they
DENIS DIDEROT
4699
fly from it, let it freeze; and in this world a man has to keep
his feet warm. Besides, I should always be in the sourest humor:
for why is it that the pious and the devotional are so hard, so
repellent, so unsociable ? It is because they have imposed upon
themselves a task contrary to their nature. They suffer, and
when a man suffers he makes others suffer. Now, that is no
affair of mine or of my patrons'. I must be in good spirits, easy,
affable, full of sallies, drollery, and folly. Virtue demands rever-
ence, and reverence is inconvenient; virtue challenges admiration,
and admiration is not 'entertaining. I have to do with people
whose time hangs heavy on their hands; they want to laugh.
Now consider the folly: the ludicrous makes people laugh, and I
therefore must be a fool; I must be amusing, and if nature had
not made me so, then by hook or by crook I should have made
myself seem so. Fortunately I have no need to play the hypo-
crite. There are hypocrites enough of all colors without me,
and not counting those who deceive themselves. . . . Should
it ever occur to friend Rameau to play Cato, to despise fortune,
women, good living, idleness, what would he be ? A hypocrite.
Let Rameau remain what he is, a happy robber among wealthy
robbers, and a man without either real or boasted virtue. In
short, your idea of happiness, the happiness of a few enthusiastic
dreamers like you, has no charm for me.
/ — He earns his bread dearly, who in order to live must
assail virtue and knowledge.
He — I have already told you that we are of no consequence.
We slander all men and grieve none.
[The dialogue reverts to music.]
/ — Every imitation has its original in nature. What is the
musician's model when he breaks into song?
He — Why do you not grasp the subject higher up? What is
song?
/ — That, I confess, is a question beyond my powers. That's
the way with us all. The memory is stored with words only,
which we think we understand because we often use them and
even apply them correctly, but in the mind we have only indefi-
nite conceptions. When I use the word "song," I have no more
definite idea of it than you and the majority of your kind have
when you say reputation, disgrace, honor, vice, virtue, shame,
propriety, mortification, ridicule.
4700 DENIS DIDEROT
He — Song is an imitation in tones, produced either by the
voice or by instruments, of a scale invented by art, or if you
will, established by nature; an imitation of physical sounds or
passionate utterances; and you see, with proper alterations this
definition could be made to fit painting, oratory, sculpture, and
poetry. Now to come to your question, What is the model of
the musician or of song ? It is the declamation, when the model
is alive or sensate; it is the tone, when the model is insensate.
The declamation must be regarded as a line, and the music as
another line which twines about it. The stronger and the more
genuine is this declamation, this model of song, the more numer-
ous the points at which the accompanying music intersects it,
the more beautiful will it be. And this our younger composers
have clearly perceived. When one hears (<Je suis un pauvre
diable,M one feels that it is a miser's complaint. If he didn't
sing, he would address the earth in the very same tones when
he intrusts to its keeping his gold : w O terre, regois mon tre"sor. *
. . . In such works with the greatest variety of characters,
there is a convincing truth of declamation that is unsurpassed.
I tell you, go, go, and hear the aria where the young man who
feels that he is dying, cries out, w Mon cceur s'en va. w Listen
to the air, listen to the accompaniment, and then tell me what
difference there is between the true tones of a dying man and
the handling of this music. You will see that the line of the
melody exactly coincides with the line of declamation. I say
nothing of the time, which is one of the conditions of song; I
confine myself to the expression, and there is nothing truer than
the statement which I have somewhere read, (< Musices seminarium
accentus," — the accent is the seed-plot of the melody. And for
that reason, consider how difficult and important a matter it is
to be able to write a good recitative. There is no beautiful aria
out of which a beautiful recitative could not be made; no beauti-
ful recitative out of which a clever man could not produce a
beautiful aria. I will not assert that one who recites well will
also be able to sing well, but I should be much surprised if a
good singer could not recite well. And you may believe all that
I tell you now, for it is true.
(And then he walked up and down and began to hum a few
arias from the ( lie des Fous, y etc. , exclaiming from time to time,
with upturned eyes and hands upraised: — ) "Isn't that beautiful,
great heavens! isn't that beautiful? Is it possible to have a pair
DENIS DIDEROT
of ears on one's head and question its beauty?" Then as his
enthusiasm rose he sang quite softly, then more loudly as he
became more impassioned, then with gestures, grimaces, contor-
tions of body. "Well," said I, (<he is losing his mind, and 1
may expect a. new scene." And in fact, all at once he burst out
singing. ... He passed from one aria to another, fully
thirty of them, — Italian, French, tragic, comic, of every sort.
Now with a deep bass he descended into hell; then, contracting
his throat, he split the upper air with a falsetto, and in gait,
mien, and action he imitated the different singers, by turns rav-
ing, commanding, mollified, scoffing. There was a little girl that
wept, and he hit off all her pretty little ways. Then he was a
priest, a king, a tyrant; he threatened, commanded, stormed;
then he was a slave and submissive. He despaired, he grew
tender, he lamented, he laughed, always in the tone, the time,
the sense of the words, of the character, of the situation.
All the chess-players had left their boards and were gathered
around him ; the windows of the cafe were crowded with passers-
by, attracted by the noise. There was laughter enough to bring
down the ceiling. He noticed nothing, but went on in such a
rapt state of mind, in an enthusiasm so close to madness, that I
was uncertain whether he would recover, or if he would be
thrown into a cab and taken straight to the mad-house; the while
he sang the Lamentations of Jomelli.
With precision, fidelity, and incredible warmth, he rendered
one of the finest passages, the superb obligate recitative in which
the prophet paints the destruction of Jerusalem; he wept himself,
and the eyes of the listeners were moist. More could not be
desired in delicacy of vocalization, nor in the expression of over-
whelming grief. He dwelt especially on those parts in which the
great composer has shown his greatness most clearly. When he
was not singing, he took the part of the instruments; these he
quickly dropped again, to return to the vocal part, weaving one
into the other so perfectly that the connection, the unity of the
whole, was preserved. He took possession of our souls and held
them in the strangest suspense I have ever experienced. Did
I admire him ? Yes, I admired him. Was I moved and melted ?
I was moved and melted, and yet something of the ludicrous
mingled itself with these feelings and modified their nature.
But you would have burst out laughing at the way he imi-
tated the different instruments. With a rough muffled tone and
47<D2 DENIS DIDEROT
puffed-out cheeks he represented horns and bassoon; for the oboe
he assumed a rasping nasal tone; with incredible rapidity he
made his voice run over the string instruments, whose tones he
endeavored to reproduce with the greatest accuracy; the flute
passages he whistled; he rumbled out the sounds of the German
flute; he shouted and sang with the gestures of a madman, and
so alone and unaided he impersonated the entire ballet corps, the
singers, the whole orchestra, — in short, a complete performance, —
dividing himself into twenty different characters, running, stop-
ping, with the mien of one entranced, with glittering eyes and
foaming mouth. . . . He was quite beside himself. Ex-
hausted by his exertions, like a man awakening from a deep
sleep or emerging from a long period of abstraction, he remained
motionless, stupefied, astonished. He looked about him in be-
wilderment, like one trying to recognize the place in which he
finds himself. He awaited the return of his strength, of his con-
sciousness; he dried his face mechanically. Like one who upon
awaking finds his bed surrounded by groups of people, in com-
plete oblivion and profound unconsciousness of what he had been
doing, he cried, <( Well, gentlemen, what's the matter ? What
are you laughing at ? What are you wondering about ? What's
the matter ? *
/ — My dear Rameau, let us talk again of music. Tell me
how it comes that with the facility you display for appreciating
the finest passages of the great masters, for retaining them in
your memory, and for rendering them to the delight of others
with all the enthusiasm with which the music inspires you, —
how comes it that you have produced nothing of value yourself ?
(Instead of answering me, he tossed his head, and raising his
finger towards heaven, cried: — )
The stars, the stars! When nature made Leo, Vinci, Pergo-
lese, Duni, she wore a smile; her face was solemn and com-
manding when she created my dear uncle Rameau, who for ten
years has been called the great Rameau, and who will soon be
named no more. But when she scraped his nephew together,
she made a face and a face and a face. — (And as he spoke he
made grimaces, one of contempt, one of irony, one of scorn.
He went through the motions of kneading dough, and smiled
at the ludicrous forms he gave it. Then he threw the strange
pagoda from him.) So she made me and threw me down among
other pagodas, some with portly well-filled paunches, short necks,
DENIS DIDEROT
protruding goggle eyes, and an apoplectic appearance; others
with lank and crooked necks and emaciated forms, with animated
eyes and hawks' noses. These all felt like laughing themselves
to death when they saw me, and when I saw them I set my
arms akimbo and felt like laughing myself to death, for fools
and clowns take pleasure in one another; seek one another out,
attract one another. Had I not found upon my arrival in this
world the proverb ready-made, that the money of fools is the
inheritance of the clever, the world would have owed it to me.
I felt that nature had put my inheritance into the purse of the
pagodas, and I tried in a thousand ways to recover it.
/ — I know these ways. You have told me of them. I have
admired them. But with so many capabilities, why do you not
try to accomplish something great ?
He — That is exactly what a man of the world said to the
Abbe" Le Blanc. The abbe* replied : — (< The Marquise de Pompa-
dour takes me in hand and brings me to the door of the
Academy; then she withdraws her hand; I fall and break both
legs. w — <(You ought to pull yourself together,* rejoined the man
of the world, (< and break the door in with your head. )} — (< I
have just tried that,8 answered the abbe, (<and do you know
what I got for it ? A bump on the head. w . . . (Then he
drank a swallow from what remained in the bottle and turned to
his neighbor.) Sir, I beg you for a pinch of snuff. That's a
fine snuff-box you have there. You are a musician ? No ! All
the better for you. They are a lot of poor deplorable wretches.
Fate made me one of them, me! Meanwhile at Montmartre
there is a mill, and in the mill there is perhaps a miller or a
miller's lad, who will never hear anything but the roaring of the
mill, and who might have composed the most beautiful of songs.
Rameau, get you to the mill, to the mill; it's there you belong.
. . . But it is half -past five. I hear the vesper bell which
summons me too. Farewell. It's true, is it not, philosopher, I
am always the same Rameau?
/ — Yes, indeed. Unfortunately.
He — Let me enjoy my misfortune forty years longer. He
laughs best who laughs last.
Translated for (A Library of the World's Best Literature. >
4704
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
(1814-1881)
JRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT was born at Halsdorf, Hessen, Ger-
many, June 3oth, 1814. He attained eminence as a poet
and dramatist, but his best powers were devoted to his
principal calling as theatre director.
His boyhood's education was received at Rinteln. At the Univer-
sity of Marburg he applied himself to theology and philology, but
more especially to modern languages and literature. After leaving
the university he became instructor at Ricklingen, near Hanover.
He was characterized, even as a young
man, by his political freedom and inde-
pendence of thought; and at Cassel, where
in 1836 he was teacher in the Lyceum, he
was on this account looked upon so much
askance that it was found expedient to
transfer him to the gymnasium at Fulda
(1838). He resigned this position, however,
in order to devote himself to writing. A
collection of his poems appeared in 1838-45,
and of these, *Lieder eines Kosmopoli-
tischen Nachtwachters } (Songs of a Cosmo-
politan Night- Watchman : 1841) may be
said to have produced a genuine agitation.
These were not only important as literature,
but as political promulgations, boldly embodying the radical senti-
ments of freethinking Germany.
In 1841 he went to Augsburg, connected himself with the Allge-
meine Zeitung, and traveled as newspaper correspondent in France,
Holland, Belgium, and England. <Das Wanderbuch* (The Wander-
Book), and (Jusqu' a la Mer — Erinnerungen aus Holland* (As Far as
the Sea — Remembrances of Holland: 1847), were the fruits of these
journeys. He had in contemplation a voyage to the Orient, and pre-
paratory to this he settled for a short time in Vienna; but the jour-
ney was not undertaken, for just at this time he was appointed
librarian of the Royal Library of Stuttgart, and reader to the king,
with the title of Court Councilor. Here in 1844 he married the cele-
brated singer Jenny Lutzer. He returned to Vienna, where in 1850
his drama < Das Haus der Barneveldt > (The House of the Barneveldts)
DINGELSTEDT
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
4705
was produced with such brilliant success that he was thereupon
appointed stage manager of the National Theatre at Munich. To
this for six years he devoted his best efforts, presenting in the
most admirable manner the finest of the German classics. The merit
of his work was recognized by the king, who ennobled him in 1857.
He was pre-eminently a theatrical manager, and served successively
at Weimar (1857) and at Vienna, where he was appointed director of
the Court Opera House in 1867, and of the Burg Theatre in 1870.
He brought the classic plays of other lands upon the stage, and
his revivals of Shakespeare's historical plays and the < Winter's Tale,*
and of Moliere's ( L'Avare * (The Miser), were brilliant events in the
theatrical annals of Vienna. He was made Imperial Councilor by the
Emperor, and raised in 1876 to the rank of baron. In 1875 he took
the position of general director of both court theatres of Vienna. He
died at Vienna, May isth, 1881.
The novels (Licht tuid Schatten der Liebe* (The Light and
Shadow of Love: 1838); <Heptameron,) 1841; and < Novellenbuch, *
1855, were not wholly successful; but in contrast to these, ( Unter
der Erde> (Under the Earth: 1840); < Sieben Friedliche Erzahlungen*
(Seven Peaceful Tales: 1844), and <Die Amazone* (The Amazon:
1868), are admirable.
Regarded purely as literature, Dingelstedt's best productions are
his early poems, although his commentaries upon Shakespeare and
Goethe are wholly praiseworthy. He was successful chiefly as a
political poet, but his muse sings also the joys of domestic life.
<Hauslieder> (Household Songs: 1844), and his poems upon Chamisso
and Uhland, are among the most beautiful personal poems in German
literature.
A MAN OF BUSINESS
From <The Amazon >: copyrighted by G. P. Putnam's Sons
HERR KRAFFT was about to reply, but was prevented by the
hasty appearance of Herr Heyboldt, the first procurist, who
entered the apartment; not an antiquated comedy figure in
shoe-buckles, coarse woolen socks, velvet pantaloons, and a long-
tailed coat, his vest full of tobacco, and a goose-quill back of his
comically flexible ear; no, but a fine-looking man, dressed in
the latest style and in black, with a medal in his button-hole,
and having an earnest, expressive countenance. He was house-
holder, member of the City Council, and militia captain; the
gold medal and colored ribbon on his left breast told of his
vin — 295
4706
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
having saved, at the risk of his own life, a Leander who had
been carried away by the current in the swimming-baths.
His announcement, urgent as it was, was made without haste,
deliberate and cool, somewhat as the mate informs the captain
that an ugly wind has sprung up. (< Herr Principal, " he said,
<( the crowd has broken in the barriers and one wing of the gate-
way; they are attacking the counting-house. " (<Who breaks,
pays, " said Krafft, with a joke ; w we will charge the sport ' to their
account." — <(The police are not strong enough; they have sent to
the Royal Watch for military. M — « That is right, Heyboldt. No
accident, no arms or legs broken?" — "Not that I know of. " —
<(Pity for Meyer Hirsch; he would have thundered magnificently
in the official Morning News against the excesses of the rage for
speculation. Nor any one wounded by the police ? " — w Not any,
so far." — <( Pity for Hirsch Meyer. The oppositional Evening
Journal has missed a capital opportunity of weeping over the
barbarity of the soldateska. At all events, the two papers must
continue to write — one for, the other against us. Keep Hirsch
Meyer and Meyer Hirsch going. " — w All right, Herr Prin-
cipal."— "Send each of them a polite line, to the effect that
we have taken the liberty of keeping a few shares for him, to
sell them at the most favorable moment, and pay him over the
difference." — "It shall be attended to, Herr Principal." — "So our
Southwestern Railway goes well, Heyboldt?" — " By steam, Herr
Principal." The sober man smiled at his daring joke, and Herr
Krafft smiled affably with him. w The amount that we have left
to furnish will be exhausted before one has time to turn around.
The people throw money, bank-notes, government bonds, at our
cashiers, who cannot fill up the receipts fast enough. On the
Bourse they fought for the blanks. " — " For the next four weeks
we will run the stock up, Heyboldt; after that it can fall, but
slowly, with decorum. " — (< I understand, Herr Principal. w
A cashier came rushing in without knocking. " Herr Princi-
pal, " he stammered in his panic, " we have not another blank,
and the people are pouring in upon us more and more vio-
lently. Wild shouts call for you.* <(To your place, sir," thun-
dered Krafft at him. " I shall come when I think it time. In
no case," he added more quietly, "before the military arrive.
We need an interference, for the sake of the market." The mes-
senger disappeared; but pale, bewildered countenances were to
be seen in the doorways of the comptoir; the house called for
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
4707
its master: the trembling daughter sent again and again for her
father.
<( Let us bring the play to a close, }> said Herr Krafft, after
brief deliberation; he stepped into the middle office, flung open a
window, and raising his harsh voice to its loudest tones, cried to
the throng below, <( You are looking for me, folks. Here I am.
What do you want of me ? w (< Shares, subscriptions, w was the
noisy answer. — (< You claim without any right or any manners.
This is my house, a peaceable citizen's house. You are breaking
in as though it were a dungeon, an arsenal, a tax-office, — as
though we were in the midst of a revolution. Are you not
ashamed of yourselves ? w A confused murmur rang through the
astonished ranks. <( If you wish to do business with me, w con-
tinued the merchant, (< you must first learn manners and disci-
pline. Have I invited your visit ? Do I need your money, or do
you need my shares ? Send up some deputies to convey your
requests. I shall have nothing to do with a turbulent mob. w So
saying, he closed the window with such violence that the panes
cracked, and the fragments fell down on the heads of the assail-
ants.
<( The Principal knows how to talk to the people, w said Hey-
boldt with pride to Roland, the mute witness of this strange
scene. <( He speaks their own language. He replies to a broken
door with a broken window. w
Meantime a company of soldiers had arrived on double-quick,
with a flourish of drums. The officer's word of command rang
through the crowd, now grown suddenly quiet*: (< Fix bayonets!
form line ! march ! }> Yard and passages were cleared, the doors
guarded; in the street the low muttering tide, forced back, made
a sort of dam. Three deputies, abashed and confused, appeared
at Krafft's door and craved audience. The merchant received
them like a prince surrounded by his court, in the midst of his
clerks, in the large counting-room. The spokesman commenced:
<( We ask your pardon, Herr Krafft, for what has happened. w -
(< For shame, that you should drag in soldiers as witnesses and
peacemakers in a quiet little business affair among order-loving
citizens. M — (< It was reported that we had been fooled with these
subscriptions, and that the entire sum had been already disposed
of on the Bourse. }> — <(And even if that were so, am I to be
blamed for it ? The Southwestern Railway must raise thirty
millions. Double, treble that amount is offered it. Can I prevent
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
the necessity of reducing the subscriptions ? " — <( No ; but they
say that we poor folks shall not get a cent's worth; the big men
of the Bourse have gobbled up the best bits right before our
noses. w — <( They say so ? Who says so ? Court Cooper Taubert,
I ask you who says so ? " — (( Gracious Herr Court Banker — M
(< Don't Court or Gracious me. My name is Krafft, Herr Hans
Heinrich Krafft. I think we know each other, Master Taubert.
It is not the first time that we have done business together.
You have a very snug little share in my workingmen's
bank. Grain-broker Wiist, you have bought one of the houses in
my street. Do I ever dun you for the installments of purchase
money ? " <( No indeed, Herr Krafft; you are a good man, a
public-spirited man, no money-maker, no leech, no Jew ! " cried
the triumvirate of deputies in chorus. — <( I am nothing more than
you are: a man of business, who works for his living, the son of
a peasant, a plain simple citizen. I began in a smaller way
than any of you; but I shall never forget that I am flesh of your
flesh, blood of your blood. Facts have proved it. I will give
you a fresh proof to-day. Go home and tell the people who
have sent you, Hans Heinrich Krafft will give up the share
which his house has subscribed to the Southwestern Railway, in
favor of the less wealthy citizens of this city. This sum of five
hundred thousand thalers shall be divided up pro rata among the
subscriptions under five hundred dollars."
(< Heaven bless you, Herr Krafft ! " stammered out the court
cooper, and the grain-broker essayed to shed a tear of gratitude;
the confidential clerk Herr Lange, the third of the group, caught
at the hand of the patron to kiss it, with emotion. Krafft drew
it back angrily. (<No self-abasement, Herr Lange," he said.
<(We are men of the people; let us behave as such. God bless
you, gentlemen. You know my purpose. Make it known to the
good people waiting outside, and see that I am rid of my billet-
ing. Let the subscriptions be conducted quietly and in good
order. Adieu, children ! * The deputation withdrew. A few
minutes afterwards there was heard a thundering hurrah: —
« Hurrah for Herr Krafft! Three cheers for Father Krafft!"
He showed himself at the window, nodded quickly and soberly,
and motioned to them to disperse.
While the tumult was subsiding, Krafft and Roland retired into
the private counting-room. (< You have," the latter said, "spoken
nobly, acted nobly. " — <( I have made a bargain, nothing more,
FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
4709
nothing less ; moreover, not a bad one. * — <( How so ? * — (< In three
months I shall buy at 70, perhaps still lower, what I am now to
give up to them at 90. * — (< You know that beforehand?" — "With
mathematical certainty. The public expects an El Dorado in the
Southwestern Railway, as it does in every new enterprise. The
undertaking is a good one, it is true, or I should not have ven-
tured upon it. But one must be able to wait until the fruit is
ripe. .The small holders cannot do that; they sow to-day, and to-
morrow they wish to reap. At the first payment their heart and
their purse are all right. At the second or third, both are gone.
Upon the least rise they will throw the paper, for which they
were ready to break each other's necks, upon the market, and so
depreciate their property. But if some fortuitous circumstance
should cause a pressure upon the money market, then they drop
all that they have, in a perfect panic, for any price. I shall
watch this moment, and buy. In a year or so, when the road
is finished and its communications complete, the shares that were
subscribed for at 90, and which I shall have bought at 60 to 70,
will touch 100, or higher.*
(<That is to say,* said Roland, thoughtfully, (<you will gain
at the expense of those people whose confidence you have
aroused, then satisfied with objects of artificial value, and finally
drained for yourself.* (< Business is business,* replied the familiar
harsh voice. (< Unless I become a counterfeiter or a forger I can
do nothing more than to convert other persons' money into my
own; of course, in an honest way.* — (<And you do this, without
fearing lest one day some one mightier and luckier than you
should do the same to you ? * — (< I must be prepared for that ; I
am prepared.* — (< Also for the storm, — not one of your own creat-
ing, but one sent by the wrath of God, that shall scatter all this
paper splendor of our times, and reduce this appalling social
inequality of ours to a universal zero ? * (< Let us quietly abide
this Last Day,* laughed the banker, taking the artist by the
arm.
47IO FRANZ VON DINGELSTEDT
T
THE WATCHMAN
HE last faint twinkle now goes out
Up in the poet's attic;
And the roisterers, in merry rout,
Speed home with steps erratic.
Soft from the house-roofs showers the snow,
The vane creaks on the steeple,
The lanterns wag and glimmer low
In the storm by the hurrying people.
The houses all stand black and still,
The churches and taverns deserted,
And a body may now wend at his will,
With his own fancies diverted.
Not a squinting eye now looks this way,
Not a slanderous mouth is dissembling,
And a heart that has slept the livelong day
May now love and hope with trembling.
Dear Night! thou foe to each base end,
While the good still a blessing prove thee,
They say that thou art no man's friend, —
Sweet Night! how I therefore love thee!
47"
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
(200-250 A. D. ?)
[T is curious how often we are dependent, for our knowledge
of some larger subject, upon a single ancient author, who
would be hardly worthy of notice but for the accidental loss
of the books composed by fitter and abler men. Thus, our only gen-
eral description of Greece at the close of the classical period is
written by a man who describes many objects that he certainly did
not see, who leaves unmentioned numberless things we wish ex-
plained, and who has a genius for so misplacing an adverb as to
bring confusion into the most commonplace statement. But not even
to Pausanias do we proffer such grudging gratitude and such un-
grateful objurgations as to Diogenes Laertius, our chief — often our
sole — authority for the ( Lives and Sayings of the Philosophers. * His
book is a fascinating one, and even amusing, — if we can forget what
we so much wanted in its stead. At second or third hand, from the
compendiums of the schools rather than from the original works of
the great masters themselves, Diogenes does give us a fairly intelli-
gible sketch, as a rule, of the outward life lived by each sage. This
slight frame is crammed with anecdotes, evidently culled with most
eager and uncritical hand from miscellaneous collections. Many of
these stories are so fragmentary as to be pointless. Others are un-
questionably attached to the wrong person. This method is at its
maddest in the author's sketch of his namesake, the Recluse of the
Tub. (One of Ali Baba's jars, by the way, would give a better notion
of the real hermitage.) Since this (< philosopher w had himself little
character and no doctrines, the loose string of anecdotes, puns, and
saucy answers suits all our needs. Throughout the work are scattered
apocryphal letters, and feeble poetic epigrams composed by the com-
piler himself. The leaning of our most unphilosophic author was
apparently toward Epicurus. The loss of that teacher's own works
causes us to prize doubly the extensive fragments of them preserved
in this relatively copious and serious study. The lover of the great
Epicurean poem of Lucretius on the ( Nature of Things* will often be
surprised to find here the source of many among the Roman poet's
most striking doctrines and images. The sketch of Zeno is also an
important authority on Stoicism. Instruction in these particular chap-
ters, then, and rich diversion elsewhere, await the reader of this most
gossipy, formless, and uncritical volume. The English reader, by the
47 1 2
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
way, ought to be provided with something better than the w Bohn w
version. This adds a goodly harvest of ludicrous misprints and other
errors of every kind to Diogenes's own mixture of borrowed wisdom
and native silliness. The classical student will prefer the Didot edi-
tion by Cobet, with the Latin version in parallel columns.
It has been thought desirable to offer here a version, slightly
abridged, of Diogenes's chapter on Socrates. The original sources,
in Plato's and Xenophon's extant works, will almost always explain,
or correct, the statements of Diogenes. Such wild shots as the
assertion that the plague repeatedly visited Athens, striking down
every inhabitant save the temperate Socrates, hardly need a serious
rejoinder. Diogenes cannot even speak with approximate accuracy
of Socrates's famous Daemon or Inward Monitor. We know, on the
best authority, that it prophesied nothing, even proposed nothing,
but only vetoed the rasher impulses of its human companion. But
to apply the tests of mere accuracy to Diogenes would be like criti-
cizing Uncle Remus for his sins against English syntax.
Of the author's life we know nothing. Our assignment of him to
the third century is based merely on the fact that he quotes writers
of the second, and is himself in turn cited by somewhat later authors.
LIFE OF SOCRATES
From the < Lives and Sayings of the Philosophers >
OOCRATES was the son of Sophroniscus a sculptor and Phsena-
O rete a midwife [as Plato also states in the ' Theaetetus * ], and
an Athenian, of the deme Alopeke. He was believed to aid
Euripides in composing his dramas. Hence Mnesimachus speaks
thus : —
<( This is Euripides's new play, the < Phrygians * :
And Socrates has furnished him the sticks."
And again: —
"Euripides, Socratically patched. w
Callias also, in his * Captives, * says : —
A — "Why art so solemn, putting on such airs?
B — Indeed I may; the cause is Socrates.*
Aristophanes, in the Clouds,' again, remarks: —
"And this is he who for Euripides
Composed the talkative wise tragedies. w
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
4713
He was a pupil of Anaxagoras, according to some authorities, but
also of Damon, as Alexander states in his * Successions. * After
the former's condemnation he became a disciple of Archelaus the
natural philosopher. But Douris says he was a slave, and carried
stones. Some say, too, that the Graces on the Acropolis are his;
they are clothed figures. Hence, they say, Timon in his ( Silli '
declares: —
(<From them proceeded the stone-polisher,
Prater on law, enchanter of the Greeks,
Who taught the art of subtle argument,
The nose-in-air, mocker of orators,
Half Attic, the adept in irony. w
For he was also clever in discussion. But the Thirty Tyrants,
as Xenophon tells us, forbade him to teach the art of arguing.
Aristophanes also brings him on in comedy, making the Worse
Argument seem the better. He was moreover the first, with his
pupil ^schines, to teach oratory. He was likewise the first who
conversed about life, and the first of the philosophers who came
to his end by being condemned to death. We are also told that
he lent out money. At least, investing it, he would collect what
was due, and then after spending it invest again. But Demetrius
the Byzantine says it was Crito who, struck by the charm of his
character, took him out of the workshop and educated him.
Realizing that natural philosophy was of no interest to men,
it is said, he discussed ethics, in the workshops and in the
agora, and used to say he was seeking
<( Whatsoever is good in human dwellings, or evil.5*
And very often, we are told, when in these discussions he con-
versed too violently, he was beaten or had his hair pulled out,
and was usually laughed to scorn. So once when he was kicked,
and bore it patiently, some one expressed surprise; but he said,
<( If an ass had kicked me, would I bring an action against him ? yy
Foreign travel he did not require, as most men do, except
when he had to serve in the army. At other times, remaining
in Athens, he disputed, in argumentative fashion with those who
conversed with him, not so as to deprive them of their belief,
but to strive for the ascertainment of truth. They say Euripides
gave him the work of Heraclitus, and asked him, (<What do you
think of it ? }> And he said, (< What I understood is fine ; I sup-
pose what I did not understand is, too ; only it needs a Delian
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
diver ! M He attended also to physical training, and was in excel-
lent condition. Moreover, he went on the expedition to Am-
phipolis, and when Xenophon had fallen from his horse in the
battle of Delium he picked him up and saved him. Indeed,
when all the other Athenians were fleeing he retreated slowly,
turning about calmly, and on the lookout to defend himself if
attacked. He also joined the expedition to Potidaea — by sea,
for the war prevented a march by land; and it was there he
was said once to have remained standing in one position all
night. There too, it is said, he was pre-eminent in valor, but
gave up the prize to Alcibiades, of whom he is stated to have
been very fond. Ion of Chios says moreover that when young
he visited Samos with Archelaus, and Aristotle states that he
went to Delphi. Favorinus again, in the first book of his ( Com-
mentaries, * says he went to the Isthmus.
He was also very firm in his convictions and devoted to the
democracy, as was evident from his not yielding to Critias and
his associates when they bade him bring Leon of Salamis, a
wealthy man, to them to be put to death. He was also the only
one w,ho opposed the condemnation of the ten generals. When
he could have escaped from prison, too, he would not. The
friends who wept at his fate he reproved, and while in prison he
composed those beautiful discourses.
He was also temperate and austere. Once, as Pamphila tells
us in the seventh book of her 'Commentaries,* Alcibiades offered
him a great estate, on which to build a house; and he said, wlf
I needed sandals, and you offered me a hide from which to make
them for myself, I should be laughed at if I took it." Often,
too, beholding the multitude of things for sale, he would say to
himself, tt How many things I do not need ! w He used constantly
to repeat aloud these iambic verses: —
<( But silver plate and garb of purple dye
To actors are of use, — but not in life."
He disdained the tyrants, — Archelaus of Macedon, Scopas of
Crannon, Eurylochus of Melissa, — not accepting gifts from them
nor visiting them. He was so regular in his way of living that
he was frequently the only one not ill when Athens was attacked
by the plague.
Aristotle says he wedded two wives, the first Xanthippe,
who bore him Lamprocles, and the second Myrto, daughter of
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
4715
Aristides the Just, whom he received without dowry and by
whom he had Sophroniscus and Menexenus. Some However say
he married Myrto first; and some again that he had them both
at once, as the Athenians on account of scarcity of men passed
a law to increase the population, permitting any one to marry
one Athenian woman and have children by another; so Socrates
did this.
He was a man also able to disdain those who mocked him.
He prided himself on his simple manner of living, and never
exacted any pay. He used to say he who ate with best appetite
had least need of delicacies, and he who drank with best appetite
had least need to seek a draught not at hand; and that he who
had fewest needs was nearest the gods. This indeed we may
learn from the comic poets, who in their very ridicule covertly
praise him. Thus Aristophanes says: —
<( O them, who hast righteously set thy heart on attaining to noble
wisdom, [Hellenes !
How happy the life thou wilt lead among the Athenians and the
Shrewdness and memory both are thine, and energy unwearied
Of mind; and never art thou tired from standing or from walking.
By cold thou art not vexed at all, nor dost thou long for breakfast.
Wine thou dost shun, and gluttony, and every other folly."
Ameipsias also, bringing him upon the stage in the philoso-
pher's cloak, says: —
<( O Socrates, best among few men, most foolish of many, thou also
Art come unto us; thou'rt a patient soul; but where didst get that
doublet ?
That wretched thing in mockery was presented by the cobblers!
Yet though so hungry, he never however has stooped to flatter a
mortal. w
This disdain and arrogance in Socrates has also been exposed
by Aristophanes, who says: —
<l Along the streets you haughtily strut; your eyes roll hither and
thither :
Barefooted, enduring discomforts, you go with countenance solemn
among us. M
And yet sometimes, suiting himself to the occasion, he dressed
finely ; as when for instance in Plato's ( Symposium } he goes to
Agathon's.
4716
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
He was a man able both to urge others to action, and to
dissuade them. Thus, when he conversed with Theaetetus on
Knowledge, he sent him away inspired, as Plato says. Again,
when Euthyphron had indicted his own father for manslaughter,
by conversing with him on piety Socrates turned him from his
purpose. Lysis also by his exhortations he rendered a most
moral man. He was moreover skillful in fitting his arguments
to the circumstances. He changed the feeling of his son Lam-
procles when he was enraged with his mother, as Xenophon some-
where relates. Plato's brother Glaucon, who wished to be active
in politics, he dissuaded because of his inexperience, as Xenophon
states; but Charmides on the other hand, who was well fitted,
he urged on. He roused the spirit of Iphicrates the general
also, pointing out to him the cocks of Midias the barber fighting
those of Callias. He said it was strange that every man could
tell easily how many sheep he had, but could not call by name
the friends whom he had acquired, so negligent were men in
that regard. Once seeing Euclid devoting great pains to cap-
tious arguments, he said, " O Euclid, you will be able to manage
sophists — but men, never !» For he thought hair-splitting on
such matters useless, as Plato also says in his ( Euthydemus.*
When Glaucon offered him some slaves, so that he might
make a profit on them, he did not take them.
He praised leisure as the best of possessions, as Xenophon
also says in his 'Symposium.* He used to say, too, that there
was but one good — knowledge ; and one evil — ignorance. Wealth
and birth, he said, had no value, but were on the contrary
wholly an evil. So when some one told him Antisthenes's mother
was a Thracian, « Did you think," quoth he, a so fine a man
must be the child of two Athenians ? w When Phaedo had been
captured in war and shamefully enslaved, Socrates bade Crito
ransom him, and made him a philosopher.
He also learned, when already an old man, to play the lyre,
saying there was no absurdity in learning what one did not
know. He used to dance frequently, too, thinking this exercise
helpful to health. This Xenophon tells us in the Symposium.*
He used to say that his Daemon foretold future events: and
that he knew nothing, except that very fact that he did know
nothing. Those who bought at a great price what was out of
season, he said, had no hope of living till the season came around.
Once being asked what was virtue in a young man, he said,
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
<( To avoid excess in all things. " He used to say one should study
geometry (surveying) just enough to be able to measure land in
buying and selling it.
When Euripides in the ( Auge } said of virtue : —
(< These things were better left to lie untouched,"
he rose up and left the theatre, saying it was absurd to think it
proper to seek for a slave if he was not to be found, but to let
virtue perish unregarded. When his advice was asked whether
to marry or not, he said, <( Whichever you do, you will regret it!"
He used to say that he marveled that those who made stone
statues took pains to make the stone as like the man as possible,
but took none with themselves, that they might not be like the
stone. He thought it proper for the young to look constantly in
the mirror, so that if they had beauty they might prove them-
selves worthy of it, and if they were ugly, that they might con-
ceal their ugliness by their accomplishments.
When he had invited rich friends to dinner, and Xanthippe
was ashamed, he said, tt Do not be troubled. If they are sensible,
they will bear with us. If not, we shall care nothing for them."
Most men, he said, lived to eat; but he ate to live. As to those
who showed regard for the opinions of the ignoble multitude, he
said it was as if a man should reject one tetradrachm [coin] as
worthless, but accept a heap of such coins as good. When
^Eschines said, <( I am poor and have nothing else, but I give you
myself, " he said, (< Do you then not realize you are offering me
the greatest of gifts ? " To him who said, (< The Athenians have
condemned you to death," he responded, (<And nature has con-
demned them also thereto:" though some ascribe this to Anax-
agoras. When his wife exclaimed, (< You die innocent ! " he
answered, (<Do you wish I were guilty?"
When a vision in sleep seemed to say: —
« Three days hence thou'lt come to the fertile region of Phthia,"
he said to JEschines, «On the third day I shall die." When he
was to drink the hemlock, Apollodorus gave him a fine garment
to die in: <( But why," quoth he, <(is this garment of mine good
enough to live in, but not to perish in ? " To him who said,
<( So-and-so speaks ill of you," he answered, (( Yes, he has not
learned to speak well." When Antisthenes turned the ragged
side of his cloak to the light, he remarked, (< I see your vanity
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
through your cloak." He declared we ought to put ourselves
expressly at the service of the comedy writers: "For if they say
anything about us that is true, they will correct us; and if what
they say be untrue, it does not concern us at all."
When Xanthippe had first reviled him, then drenched him
with water, "Didn't I tell you," said he, "it was thundering and
would soon rain ? " To Alcibiades, who said Xanthippe's scolding
was unbearable, he replied, " I am accustomed to it, as to a con-
stantly creaking pulley. And you," he added, "endure the cack-
ling of geese." Alcibiades said, "Yes, for they bring me eggs
and goslings." "And Xanthippe," retorted Socrates, "bears me
children." Once when she pulled off his cloak in the agora, his
friends advised him to defend himself with force. "Yes," said
he, "by Jove, so that as we fight, each of you may cry, (Well
done, Socrates!' 'Good for you, Xanthippe!'" He used to say
he practiced on Xanthippe just as trainers do with spirited horses.
"Just as they if they master them are able to control any other
horse, so I who am accustomed to Xanthippe shall get on easily
with any one else."
It was for such words and acts as this that the Delphic priest-
ess bore witness in his honor, giving to Chairephon that famous
response : —
"Wisest of all mankind is Socrates."
He became extremely unpopular on account of this oracle;
but also because he convicted of ignorance those who had a great
opinion of themselves, particularly Anytus, as Plato also says in
the 'Meno.' For Anytus, enraged at the ridicule Socrates brought
upon him, first urged Aristophanes and the rest on to attack
him, and then induced Meletus to join in indicting him for impi-
ety and for corrupting the young men. Plato in the * Apology *
says there were three accusers, — Anytus, Lycon, and Meletus:
Anytus being incensed at him in behalf of the artisans and poli-
ticians, Lycon for the orators, and Meletus for the poets, all of
whom Socrates pulled to pieces. The sworn statement of the
plaintiffs ran as follows; for it is still recorded, Favorinus says,
in the State archives: — "Socrates is guilty, not honoring the
gods whom the State honors, but introducing other strange divin-
ities; and he is further guilty of corrupting the young. Penalty,
death. "
When Lysias wrote a speech for his defense, he read it, and
said, " A fine speech, Lysias, but not suited to me ; " for indeed
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
it was rather a lawyer's plea than a philosopher's. Lysias said,
<( But why, if the speech is a fine one, should it not be suitable
for you ? )J Socrates replied, (< Would not fine robes, then, and
sandals, be unfitting for me ? w
While he was on trial, it is stated that Plato ascended the
bema and began, <( Being the youngest, O men of Athens, of all
who ever came upon the bema" — but at this point the judges
cried out, (< Come down ! come down ! }> So he was convicted by
two hundred and eighty-one votes more than were cast for his
acquittal. And when the judges considered what penalty or fine
he should receive, he said he would pay five-and-twenty drachmae.
Euboulides says he agreed to pay a hundred, but when the
judges expressed their indignation aloud, he said, (< For what I
have done, I consider the proper return to be support at the
public expense in the town hall. w But they condemned him to
death, the vote being larger than before by eighty.
Not many days later he drank the hemlock in the prison,
after uttering many noble words, recorded by Plato in the
'Phasdo.* According to some, he wrote a poem beginning —
(< Greeting, Apollo of Delos, and Artemis, youthful and famous.*
He also versified, not very successfully, a fable of
which began —
once to the people who dwell in the city of Corinth
Said, ( Let virtue be judged not by the popular voice. )W
So he passed from among men ; but straightway the Athenians
repented of their action, so that they closed the gymnasia, and
exiling the other accusers, put Meletus to death. Socrates they
honored with a statue of bronze, the work of Lysippus, which
was set up in the Pompeion. Anytus in exile, entering Heraclea,
was warned out of town that very day.
The Athenians have had the same experience not only in Soc-
rates's case, but with many others. Indeed, it is stated that they
fined Homer as a madman, and adjudged Tyrtaeus to be crazy.
Euripides reproves them in the ( Palamedes, * saying : —
(<Ye have slain, ye have slain the all-wise, the harmless nightin-
gale of the Muses.*
That is so. But Philochorus says Euripides died before Socrates.
4-20 DIOGENES LAERTIUS
Socrates and Euripides were both disciples of Anaxagoras.
It appears to me, too, that Socrates did talk on natural philoso-
phy. In fact, Xenophon says so, though he states that Socrates
held discourse only upon moral questions. Plato indeed, in the
Apology,' mentioning Anaxagoras and other natural philosophers,
himself says of them things whereof Socrates denies any knowl-
edge; yet it is all ascribed to Socrates.
Aristotle states that a certain mage from Syria came to
Athens, and among other prophecies concerning Socrates foretold
that his death would be a violent one.
The following verses upon him are our own: —
Drink, in the palace of Zeus, O Socrates, seeing that truly
Thou by a god wert called wise, who is wisdom itself.
Foolish Athenians, who to thee offered the potion of hemlock,
Through thy lips themselves draining the cup to the dregs!
Translated for <A Library of the World's Best Literature,* by William
C. Lawton.
EXAMPLES OF GREEK WIT AND WISDOM
BIAS
ONCE he was on a voyage with some impious men. The ves-
sel was overtaken by a storm, and they began to call upon
the gods for aid. But Bias said, w Be silent, so they may
not discover that you are aboard our ship ! w
He declared it was pleasanter to decide a dispute between his
enemies than between friends. "For of two friends," he ex-
plained, wone is sure to become my enemy; but of two enemies
I make one friend."
PLATO
IT is said Socrates, in a dream, seemed to be holding on his
knees a cygnet, which suddenly grew wings and flew aloft, sing-
ing sweetly. Next day Plato came to him; and Socrates said he
was the bird.
It is told that Plato, once seeing a man playing at dice,
reproved him. <(The stake is but a trifle," said the other. <(Yes,
but," responded Plato, <(the habit is no trifle."
Once when Xenocrates came into Plato's house, the latter
bade him scourge his slave for him., explaining that he could not
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
4721
do it himself, because he was angry. Again, he said to one
of his slaves, (<You would have had a beating if I were not
angry. "
ARISTIPPUS
DIONYSIUS once asked him why it is that the philosophers are
seen at rich men's doors, not the rich men at the doors of the
sages. Aristippus replied, (< Because the wise realize what they
lack, but the rich do not." On a repetition of the taunt on an-
other occasion he retorted, (( Yes, and physicians are seen at sick
men's doors; yet none would choose to be the patient rather than
the leech ! »
Once when overtaken by a storm on a voyage to Corinth, he
was badly frightened. Somebody said to him, <( We ordinary folk
are not afraid, but you philosophers play the coward. " <( Yes, "
was his reply, <( we are not risking the loss of any such wretched
life as yours. "
Some one reproached him for his extravagance in food. He
answered, (< If you could buy these same things for threepence,
wouldn't you do it ? " — <( Oh yes. " — (< Why then, 'tis not I who
am too fond of the luxurious food, but you that are over-fond of
your money ! "
ARISTOTLE
WHEN asked, (< What is Hope ? " he answered, (< The dream of
a man awake. " Asked what grows old quickest, he replied,
<( Gratitude. " When told that some one had slandered him in
his absence, he said, <( He may beat me too — in my absence ! "
Being asked how much advantage the educated have over the
ignorant, he replied, (<As much as the living over the dead."
Some one asked him why we spend much time in the society
of the beautiful. (< That, " he said, (< is a proper question for a
blind man!" \Cf. Emerson's ( Rhodora. >]
Once being asked how we should treat our friends, he said,
<(As we would wish them to treat us." Asked what a friend is,
he answered, <(One soul abiding in two bodies."
VIII — 296
4722 DIOGENES LAERT1US
THEOPHRASTUS
To A man who at a feast was persistently silent, he remarked,
w If you are ignorant, you are acting wisely ; if you are intelligent,
you are behaving foolishly."
DEMETRIUS
IT WAS a saying of his that to friends in prosperity we should
go when invited, but to those in misfortune unbidden.
When told that the Athenians had thrown down his statues,
he answered, (< But not my character, for which they erected
them. »
ANTISTHENES
SOME one asked him what he gained from philosophy. He
replied, tt The power to converse with myself. "
He advised the Athenians to pass a vote that asses were
horses. When they thought that irrational, he said, w But cer-
tainly, your generals are not such because they have learned any-
thing, but simply because you have elected them ! w
DIOGENES
HE USED to say that when in the course of his life he saw
pilots, and physicians, and philosophers, he thought man the most
sensible of animals; but when he saw interpreters of dreams, and
soothsayers, and those who paid attention to them, and those
puffed up by fame or wealth, he believed no creature was sillier
than man.
Some said to him, "You are an old man. Take life easy
now. w He replied, w And if I were running the long-distance
race, should I when nearing the goal slacken, and not rather
exert myself ? w
When he saw a child drink out of his hands, he took the cup
out of his wallet and flung it away, saying, WA child has beaten
me in simplicity."
He used to argue thus, "All things belong to the gods. The
wise are the friends of the gods. The goods of friends are com-
mon property. Therefore all things belong to the wise.M
To one who argued that motion was impossible, he made no
answer, but rose and walked away.
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
When the Athenians urged him to be initiated into the Mys-
teries, assuring him that in Hades those who were initiated have
the front seats, he replied, c< It is ludicrous, if Agesilaus and
Epaminondas are to abide in the mud, and some ignoble wretches
who are initiated are to dwell in the Isles of the Blest ! )}
Plato made the definition (< Man is a two-footed featherless
animal, w and was much praised for it. - Diogenes plucked a fowl
and brought it into his school, saying (( This is Plato's man ! "
So the addition was made to the definition, (<with broad nails."
When a man asked him what was the proper hour for lunch,
he said, <( If you are rich, when you please; if you are poor,
when you can get it."
He used often to shout aloud that an easy life had been given
by the gods to men, but they had covered it from sight in their
search for honey-cakes and perfumes and such things.
The musician who was always left alone by his hearers he
greeted with <( Good morning, cock ! * When the other asked
him the reason, he said, <( Because your music starts everybody
up.»
When an exceedingly superstitious man said to him, <( With
one blow I will break your head ! }) he retorted, ft And with a
sneeze at your left side I will make you tremble.*
When asked what animal had the worst bite, he said, <( Of
wild beasts, the sycophant; and of tame creatures, the flatterer. w
Being asked when was the proper time to marry, he responded,
(< For young men, not yet; and for old men, not at all. M
When he was asked what sort of wine he enjoyed drink-
ing, he answered, (< Another man's. w [Of a different temper
was Dante, who knew too well <( how salt the bread of others
tastes !»]
Some one advised him to hunt up his runaway slave. But
he replied, (< It is ridiculous if Manes lives without Diogenes, but
Diogenes cannot without Manes. w
When asked why men give to beggars, but not to philoso-
phers, he said, <( Because they expect themselves to become lame
and blind ; but philosophers, never ! })
CLEANTHES
WHEN a comic actor apologized for having ridiculed him from
the stage, he answered gently, <( It would be preposterous, when
DIOGENES LAERTIUS
Bacchus and Hercules bear the raillery of the poets without
showing any anger, if I should be indignant when I chance to
be attacked. }>
PYTHAGORAS
Precepts
Do NOT stir the fire with a sword.
Do not devour your heart.
Always have your bed packed up.
Do not walk in the main street.
Do not cherish birds with crooked talons.
Avoid a sharp sword.
When you travel abroad, look not back at your own borders.
[Diogenes explains this: be resigned to death.]
Consider nothing exclusively your own.
Destroy no cultivated tree, or harmless animal.
Modesty and decorum consist in never yielding to laughter,
and yet not looking stern. \Cf. Emerson on Manners.]
Translated for <A Library of the World's Best Literature,) by William C.
Lawton.
4725
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
(1766-1848)
JMONG the writers whose education and whose tastes were the
outcome of the classicism of the eighteenth century, yet
whose literary life lapped over into the Victorian epoch,
was Isaac D'Israeli, born at Enfield in May 1766. D'Israeli was of
Jewish origin, his ancestors having fled from the Spanish persecu-
tions of the fifteenth century to find a home in Venice, whence a
younger branch migrated to England.
At the time of his birth his family had stood for generations among
the foremost English Jews, his father hav-
ing been made a citizen by special legisla-
tion. The boy, however, did not inherit
the commercial spirit which had established
his house. He was a lover of books and
a dreamer of dreams, and so early devel-
oped literary tendencies that his frightened
father sent him off to Amsterdam to school,
in the hope of curing proclivities so dan-
gerous. Here he became familiar with the
works of the Encyclopaedists, and adopted
the theories of Rousseau. On returning to
England in his nineteenth year, he replied
to his father's proposition that he should
enter a commercial house at Bordeaux, by
a long poem in which he passionately inveighed against the commer-
cial spirit, and avowed himself a student of philosophy and letters.
His father's reluctant acquiescence was obtained at last through the
good offices of the laureate Pye, to whom the youth had already
dedicated his first book, (A Defence of Poetry.'
At the outset of his 'career he found himself received with consid-
eration by the men whose acquaintance he most desired. Following
the fashion of the day, and inspired by the books of anecdotes so
successfully published by his friend Douce, D'Israeli in 1791 pro-
duced anonymously a small volume entitled ( Curiosities of Litera-
ture^ the copyright of which he magnanimously presented to his
publisher. The extraordinary success of this book can be accounted*
for only by the curious taste of the time, which still reflected the
more unworthy traditions of the Addisonian era. It was an age of
clubs and tea-tables, of society scandal-mongering and fireside gossip;
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
4726
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
and the reading public welcomed a contribution whose refined dilet-
tantism so well matched its own. The mysteries of Eleusis and the
origin of wigs received the same grave attention. This popularity
induced D 'Israeli to buy back the copyright at a generous valuation ;
he enlarged the work to five volumes, which passed through twelve
in his own lifetime, and still serves to illustrate a curious literary
phase.
Other compilations of similar nature met the same success : c The
Calamities of Authors,* Quarrels of Authors,* and ( Literary Recol-
lections*; but the < Amenities of Literature,* his last work, is the
most purely literary in form, and affords perhaps the best index to
D'Israeli's abilities as a writer. The reader of to-day, however, is
struck by the ephemeral nature of this criticism, which yet by a
curious literary experience is keeping a place among the permanent
productions of its age. The reader is everywhere impressed by the
human sympathy, by the wide if rather superficial knowledge, and
by innumerable felicities of expression and style, which betray the
cultivated mind. To lovers of the curious the books still appeal, and
they will continue to hold an honorable, place among the bric-a-brac
of literature.
The spirit of curiosity which characterized the mind of D'Israeli
assumed its most dignified concrete form in the ' Commentaries on
the Reign of Charles I.* D'Israeli had an artistic sense of the values
in a historical picture, with a keen perception of the importance of
side lights; and although the book is not a great contribution to the
literature of history, yet it became popular, and in July 1832 earned
for its author the degree of D. C. L. from Oxford.
D'Israeli's romances were tedious tales, but his hold upon the pub-
lic was secure, and the vast amount of miscellaneous matter which
he published always found a delighted audience. * The Genius of
Judaism,* a philosophical inquiry into the historical significance of
the permanence of the Jewish race, showed the author's psychic limi-
tations. He designed a history of English literature, for which he
had gathered much material, but increasing blindness forced Trim to
abandon it. Much of D'Israeli's popularity was unquestionably due
to his qualities of heart. His nature was fine; he was an affectionate
and devoted friend, and held an enviable position in the literary cir-
cles of the day. Campbell, Byron, Rogers, and Scott alike admired
and loved him, while a host of lesser men eagerly sought his friend-
ship.
Although brought up in the Jewish faith, D'Israeli affiliated early
in life with the Church of England, in which his three sons and one
daughter were baptized. He died in 1848, and was buried at Bran-
denham. Twenty years later his daughter-in-law, the Countess of
Beaconsfield, erected at Hughenden a monument to his memory.
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
4727
POETS, PHILOSOPHERS, AND ARTISTS MADE BY ACCIDENT
From < Curiosities of Literature >
ACCIDENT has frequently occasioned the most eminent geniuses
to display their powers. It was at Rome, says Gibbon, on
the fifteenth of October, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the
ruins of the Capitol, while the barefooted friars were singing
vespers in the Temple of Jupiter, that the idea of writing the
decline and fall of the city first started to my mind.
Father Malebranche, having completed his studies in philos-
ophy and theology without any other intention than devoting
himself to some religious order, little expected the celebrity his
works acquired for him. Loitering in an idle hour in the shop
of a bookseller, and turning over a parcel of books, ( L'Homme
de Descartes } fell into his hands. Having dipt into some parts,
he read with such delight that the palpitations of his heart com-
pelled him to lay the volume down. It was this circumstance
that produced those profound contemplations which made him the
Plato of his age.
Cowley became a poet by accident. In his mother's apart-
ment he found, when very young, Spenser's ( Fairy Queen, > and
by a continual study of poetry he became so enchanted of the
Muse that he grew irrecoverably a poet.
Dr. Johnson informs us that Sir Joshua Reynolds had the
first fondness of his art excited by the perusal of Richardson's
Treatise.
Vaucanson displayed an uncommon genius for mechanics.
His taste was first determined by an accident: when young, he
frequently attended his mother to the residence of her confessor;
and while she wept with repentance, he wept with weariness! In
this state of disagreeable vacation, says Helvetius, he was struck
with the uniform motion of the pendulum of the clock in the
hall. His curiosity was roused; he approached the clock-case,
and studied its mechanism; what he could not discover he
guessed at. He then projected a similar machine, and gradually
his genius produced a clock.' Encouraged by this first success, he
proceeded in his various attempts; and the genius which thus
could form a clock, in time formed a fluting automaton.
If Shakespeare's imprudence had not obliged him to quit his
wool trade and his town; if he had not engaged with a company
4728
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
of actors, and at length, disgusted with being an indifferent per-
former, he had not turned author, the prudent wool-seller had
never been the celebrated poet.
Accident determined the taste of Moliere for the stage. His
grandfather loved the theatre, and frequently carried him there.
The young man lived in dissipation; the father, observing it,
asked in anger if his son was to be made an actor. <( Would to
God,w replied the grandfather, <( he was as good an actor as
Montrose." The words struck young Moliere; he took a disgust
to his tapestry trade; and it is to this circumstance France owes
her greatest comic writer.
Corneille loved; he made verses for his mistress, became a
poet, composed ( Me'lite, ' and afterwards his other celebrated
works. The discreet Corneille had remained a lawyer.
Thus it is that the devotion of a mother, the death of Crom-
well, deer-stealing, the exclamation of an old man, and the
beauty of a woman, have given five illustrious characters to
Europe.
We owe the great discovery of Newton to a very trivial acci-
dent. When a student at Cambridge, he had retired during the
time of the plague into the country. As he was reading under
an apple-tree, one of the fruit fell, and struck him a smart blow
on the head. When he observed the smallness of the apple, he
was surprised at the force of the stroke. This led him to con-
sider the accelerating motion of falling bodies; from whence he
deduced the principle of gravity, and laid the foundation of his
philosophy.
Ignatius Loyola was a Spanish gentleman who was danger-
ously wounded at the siege of Pampeluna. Having heated his
imagination by reading the Lives of the Saints, which were
brought to him in his illness instead of a romance, he conceived
a strong ambition to be the founder of a religious order; whence
originated the celebrated society of the Jesuits.
Rousseau found his eccentric powers first awakened by the
advertisement of the singular annual subject which the Academy
of Dijon proposed for that year, in which he wrote his celebrated
Declamation against the arts and sciences; a circumstance which
determined his future literary efforts.
La Fontaine, at the age of twenty-two, had not taken any
profession or devoted himself to any pursuit. Having accidentally
heard some verses of Malherbe, he felt a sudden impulse, which
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
directed his future life. He immediately bought a Malherbe, and
was so exquisitely delighted with this poet that after passing the
nights in treasuring his verses in his memory, he would run in
the daytime to the woods, where, concealing himself, he would
recite his verses to the surrounding dryads.
Flamsteed was an astronomer by accident. He was taken
from school on account of his illness, when Sacrobosco's book
( De Sphaera * having been lent to him, he was so pleased with
it that he immediately began a course of astronomic studies.
Pennant's first propensity to natural history was the pleasure he
received from an accidental perusal of Willoughby's work on
birds; the same accident, of finding on the table of his professor
Reaumur's ( History of Insects,* — of which he read more than
he attended to the lecture, — and having been refused the loan,
gave such an instant turn to the mind of Bonnet that he has-
tened to obtain a copy, but found many difficulties in procuring
this costly work. Its possession gave an unalterable direction to-
his future life: this naturalist indeed lost the use of his sight by
his devotion to the microscope.
Dr. Franklin attributes the cast of his genius to a similar
accident. <( I found a work of Defoe's, entitled an ( Essay on
Projects,* from which perhaps I derived impressions that have
since influenced some of the principal events of my life.**
I shall add the incident which occasioned Roger Ascham to
write his * Schoolmaster, * one of the most curious and useful
treatises among our elder writers.
At a dinner given by Sir William Cecil during the plague in
1563, at his apartments at Windsor, where the Queen had taken
refuge, a number of ingenious men were invited. Secretary-
Cecil communicated the news of the morning, that several schol-
ars at Eton had run away on account of their master's severity,
which he condemned as a great error in the education of youth.
Sir William Petre maintained the contrary; severe in his own
temper, he pleaded warmly in defense of hard flogging. Dr.
Wootton, in softer tones, sided with the Secretary. Sir John
Mason, adopting no side, bantered both. Mr. Haddon seconded
the hard-hearted Sir William Petre, and adduced as an evidence
that the best schoolmaster then in England was the hardest flog-
ger. Then was it that Roger Ascham indignantly exclaimed
that if such a master had an able scholar it was owing to the
boy's genius and not the preceptor's rod. Secretary Cecil and
ISAAC D'ISRAELl
others were pleased with Ascham's notions. Sir Richard Sack-
ville was silent; but when Ascham after dinner went to the
Queen to read one of the orations of Demosthenes, he took him
aside, and frankly told him that though he had taken no part
in the debate he would not have been absent from that conversa-
tion for a great deal; that he knew to his cost the truth Ascham
had supported, for it was the perpetual flogging of such a
schoolmaster that had given him an unconquerable aversion to
study. And as he wished to remedy this defect in his own
children, he earnestly exhorted Ascham to write his observations
on so interesting a topic. Such was the circumstance which pro-
duced the admirable treatise of Roger Ascham.
THE MARTYRDOM OF CHARLES THE FIRST
From the < Commentaries on the Reign of Charles the First*
AT WHITEHALL a repast had been prepared. The religious
emotions of Charles had consecrated the sacrament, which
he refused to mingle with human food. The Bishop, whose
mind was unequal to conceive the intrepid spirit of the King,
dreading lest the magnanimous monarch, overcome by the sever-
ity of the cold, might faint on the scaffold, prevailed on him to
eat half a manchet of bread and taste some claret. But the more
consolatory refreshment of Charles had been just imparted to
him in that singular testimony from his son, who had sent a carte
blanclie to save the life of his father at any price. This was a
thought on which his, affections could dwell in face of the scaf-
fold which he was now to ascend.
Charles had arrived at Whitehall about ten o'clock, and was
> not led to the scaffold till past one. It was said that the scaffold
was not completed; it might have been more truly said that the
conspirators were not ready. There was a mystery in this delay.
The fate of Charles the First to the very last moment was in sus-
pense. Fairfax, though at the time in the palace, inquired of
Herbert how the King was, when the King was no more! and
expressed his astonishment on hearing that the execution had
just taken place. This extraordinary simplicity and abstraction
from the present scene of affairs has been imputed to the Gen-
eral as an act of refined dissimulation, yet this seems uncertain.
The Prince's carte blanche had been that morning confided to his
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
4731
hands, and he surely must have laid it before the (< Grandees of
the Army," as this new order of the rulers of England was
called. Fairfax, whose personal feelings respecting the King were
congenial with those his lady had so memorably evinced, labored
to defer for a few days the terrible catastrophe; not without the
hope of being able, by his own regiment and others in the army,
to prevent the deed altogether. It is probable — inexplicable as
it may seem to us — that the execution of Charles the First really
took place unknown to the General. Fairfax was not unaccus-
tomed to discover that his colleagues first acted, and afterwards
trusted to his own discernment.
Secret history has not revealed all that passed in those three
awful hours. We know, however, that the warrant for the exe-
cution was not signed till within a few minutes before the King
was led to the scaffold. In an apartment in the Palace, Ireton and
Harrison were in bed together, and Cromwell, with four colonels,
assembled in it. Colonel Huncks refused to sign the warrant.
Cromwell would have no further delay, reproaching the Colonel
as wa peevish, cowardly fellow, M and Colonel Axtell declared that
he was ashamed for his friend Huncks, remonstrating with him,
that (<the ship is coming into the harbor, and now would he
strike sail before we come to anchor ? w Cromwell stepped to a
table, and wrote what he had proposed to Huncks; Colonel
Hacker, supplying his place, signed it, and with the ink hardly
dry, carried the warrant in his hand and called for the King.
At the fatal summons Charles rose with alacrity. The King
passed through the long gallery by a line of soldiers. Awe and
sorrow seem now to have mingled in their countenances. Their
barbarous commanders were intent on their own triumph, and
no farther required the forced cry of <( Justice and Execution. M
Charles stepped out of an enlarged window of the Banqueting
House, where a new opening leveled it with the scaffold. Charles
came forward with the same indifference as <( he would have
entered Whitehall on a masque night, w as an intelligent observer
described. The King looked towards St. James's and smiled.
Curious eyes were watchful of his slightest motions; and the
Commonwealth papers of the day express their surprise, perhaps
their vexation, at the unaltered aspect and the firm step of the
Monarch. These mean spirits had flattered themselves that he
who had been cradled in royalty, who had lived years in the
fields of honor, and was now, they presumed, a recreant in
4732
ISAAC D'ISRAELI
imprisonment, — "the grand Delinquent of England, w — as they
called him, would start in horror at the block.
This last triumph at least was not reserved for them, — it was
for the King. Charles, dauntless, strode ((the floor of Death, M to
use Fuller's peculiar but expressive phraseology. He looked on
the block with the axe lying upon it, with attention; his only
anxiety was that the block seemed not sufficiently raised, and
that the edge of the axe might be turned by being swept by the
flappings of cloaks, or blunted by the feet of some moving about
the scaffold. "Take care they do not put me to pain! — Take
heed of the axe! take heed of the axe!w exclaimed the King to
a gentleman passing by. " Hurt not the axe ; that may hurt
me ! M His continued anxiety concerning these circumstances
proves that he felt not the terror of death, solely anxious to
avoid the pain, for he had an idea of their cruelty. With that
sedate thoughtfulness which was in all his actions, he only looked
at the business of the hour. One circumstance Charles observed
with a smile. They had a notion that the King would resist the
executioner; on the suggestion of Hugh Peters, it is said, they
had driven iron staples and ropes into the scaffold, that their
victim, if necessary, might be bound down upon the block.
The King's speech has many remarkable points, but certainly
nothing so remarkable as the place where it was delivered. This
was the first "King's Speech" spoken from a scaffold. Time
shall confirm, as history has demonstrated, his principle that
"They mistook the nature of government; for people are free
under a government, not by being sharers in it, but by the due
administration of the laws. » " It was for this, w said Charles,
"that now I am come here. If I could have given way to an
arbitrary sway, for to have all laws changed according to the
power of the sword, I need not have come here; and therefore
I tell you that I am the Martyr of the People! »
4733
SYDNEY DOBELL
(1824-1874)
'YDNEY DOBELL, the son of a wine merchant, was born at Cran-
brook in Kent. His parents, both persons of strong indi-
viduality, believed in home training, and not one of their
eight children went either to school or to university. They belonged
to the Broad Church Community founded by Sydney's maternal grand-
father, Samuel Thompson; a church intended to recall in its princi-
ples the primitive Christian ages. The parents looked upon Sydney,
their eldest-born, as destined to become the apostle of this creed.
He grew up in a kind of religious fervor, with his precocious mind
unnaturally stimulated; a course of conduct which materially weak-
ened his constitution, and made him a chronic invalid at the early
age of thirty-three. He read whatever books came to hand, many of
them far beyond his years. At the age of eight he rilled his diary
with theological discussions.
Entering his father's counting-house as a mere lad, he remained to
the end of his life a business man of great energy. Notwithstand-
ing his rare poetic endowments, he never seems to have entertained
a single-minded purpose to be a poet and nothing more. On the con-
trary, he thought the ideal and the practical life perfectly compati-
ble, and he strove to unite in himself the poet and the man of affairs.
He wrote habitually until 1856, when regular literary work was for-
bidden by his physicians. With characteristic energy he now turned
his thoughts into other channels; identified himself with the affairs
of Gloucester, where he was living, looked after his business, and
was one of the first to adopt the system of industrial co-operation.
The last four years of his life, a period of suffering and helpless-
ness, he spent at Barton-End House, above the Stroud valley, where
he died in the spring of 1874.
In the work of Dobell it is curious to find so few traces of the
influences under which he grew up. He had every encouragement to
become a writer of religious poetry; yet much of his work is philo-
sophic and recondite. His delicate health is in a measure responsible
for his failure to achieve the success which his natural endowments
promised. All his literary work was done between the ages of
twenty-three and thirty-three. <The Roman, > his first long poem,
appeared in 1850. Dedicated to the Italian struggle for liberty, it
showed his breadth of sympathy. In Balder,* finished in 1853,
47.34
SYDNEY DOBELL
Dobell is at his best both as thinker and as poet. Yet its many fine
passages, its wealth of metaphor, and the exquisite songs of Amy,
hardly counterbalance the" remoteness of its theme, and its over-
subtle analysis of morbid psychic states. It . is a poem to be read
in fragments, and has aptly been called a mine for poets.
With Alexander Smith he published in 1855 a series of sonnets
inspired by the Crimean War. This was followed in 1856 by Eng-
land in War Time,* a collection of Dobell's lyrical and descriptive
poems, which possess more general human interest than any other of
his books.
After continuous work was interdicted, he still contributed verse
and prose to the periodicals. His essays have been collected by Pro-
fessor Nichol, under the title < Thoughts on Art, Philosophy, and
Religion. * As a poet Dobell belongs to the so-called <( spasmodic
school, * a school (< characterized by an undercurrent of discontent
with the mystery of existence, by vain effort, unrewarded struggle,
skeptical unrest, and an uneasy striving after some incomprehensible
end. . . . Poetry of this kind is marked by an excess of metaphor
which darkens rather than illustrates, and by a general extravagance
of language. On the other hand, it manifests freshness and original-
ity, and a rich natural beauty. w Dobell's descriptions of scenery are
among the finest in English literature. His senses were abnormally
acute, like those of a savage, a condition which intensified his appre-
ciation of natural beauty. Possessing a vivid imagination and wide
sympathies, he was often over-subtle and obscure. He strove to real-
ize in himself his ideal of a poet, and during his years of ill-health
gave himself up to promoting the welfare of his fellow-men; but of
his seventeen years of inactivity he says: — <( The keen perception of
all that should be done, and that so bitterly cries for doing, accom-
panies the consciousness of all that I might but cannot do."
EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD FORBES
N
ATURE, a jealous mistress, laid him low.
He wooed and won her; and, by love made bold,
She showed him more than mortal man should know —
Then slew him lest her secret should be told.
SYDNEY DOBELL
HOW'S MY BOY?
o, SAILOR of the sea!
How's my boy — my boy?w —
*' What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he ? w
H
(<My boy John —
He that went to sea —
What care 1 for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
<( You come back from the sea,
And not know my John ?
I might as well have asked some landsman,
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But knows my John.
<( How's my boy — my boy ?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no —
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no —
"Sure, his ship was the Jolly Briton — })
(< Speak low, woman, speak low ! w
(< And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John ?
If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him over the town !
Why should I speak low, sailor ? w —
w That good ship went down. d
(< How's my boy — my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor ?
I was never aboard her.
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John?* —
ft Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.*
4736
SYDNEY DOBELL
"How's my boy — my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother.
How's my boy — my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How's my boy — my boy?w
THE SAILOR'S RETURN
'HIS morn I lay a-dreaming.
This morn, this merry morn;
When the cock crew shrill from over the hill.
I heard a bugle horn.
T
And through the dream I was dreaming,
There sighed the sigh of the sea,
And through the dream I was dreaming,
This voice came singing to me: —
w High over the breakers,
Low under the lee,
Sing ho!
The billow,
And the lash of the rolling sea!
" Boat, boat, to the billow,
Boat, boat, to the lee!
Love, on thy pillow,
Art thou dreaming of me ?
" Billow, billow, breaking,
Land us low on the lee!
For sleeping or waking.
Sweet love, I am coming to theel
« High, high, o'er the breakers,
Low, low, on the lee,
Sing ho!
The billow
That brings me back to thee ! n
SYDNEY DOBELL 4737
AFLOAT AND ASHORE
« r-p\uMBLE and rumble, and grumble and snort,
Like a whale to starboard, a whale to port;
Tumble and rumble, and grumble and snort,
And the steamer steams thro' the sea, love!w
(<I see the ship on the sea, love;
I stand alone
On this rock;
The sea does not shock
The stone;
The waters around it are swirled,
But under my feet
I feel it go down
To where the hemispheres meet
At the adamant heart of the world.
Oh that the rock would move!
Oh that the rock would roll
To meet thee over the sea, love!
Surely my mighty love
Should fill it like a soul,
And it should bear me to thee, love;
Like a ship on the sea, love,
Bear me, bear me, to thee, love!w
<( Guns are thundering, seas are sundering, crowds are wondering,
Low on our lee, love.
Over and over the cannon-clouds cover brother and lover, but over
and over
The whirl-wheels trundle the sea, love;
And on through the loud pealing pomp of her cloud
The great ship is going to thee, love,
Blind to her mark, like a world through the dark,
Thundering, sundering, to the crowds wondering,
Thundering over to thee, love.*
(< I have come down to thee coming to me, love ;
I stand, I stand
On the solid sand;
I see thee coming to me, love;
The sea runs up to me on the sand:
I start — 'tis as if thou hadst stretched thine hand
And touched me through the sea, love.
I feel as if I must die,
For there's something longs to fly,
Fly and fly, to thee, love,
vni — 297
4738
SYDNEY DOBELL
As the blood of the flower ere she blows
Is beating up to the sun,
And her roots do hold her down,
And it blushes and breaks undone
In a rose,
So my blood is beating in me, level
I see thee nigh and nigher;
And my soul leaps up like sudden fire,
My life's in the air
To meet thee there,
To meet thee coming to me, love!
Over the sea,
Coming to me,
Coming, and coming to me, love!"
wThe boats are lowered: I leap in first,
Pull, boys, pull! or my heart will burst!
More! more! — lend me an oar! —
I'm thro' the breakers! I'm on the shore!
I see thee waiting for me, love ! w
(< A sudden storm
Of sighs and tears,
A clenching arm,
. A look of years.
In my bosom a thousand cries,
A flash like light before my eyes,
And I am lost in thee, love!}>
THE SOUL
From < Balder >
AND as the mounting and descending bark,
Borne on exulting by the under deep,
Gains of the wild wave something not the wave,
Catches a joy of going and a will
Resistless, and upon the last lee foam
Leaps into air beyond it, — so the soul
Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-tossed,
Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged
To darkness, and, still wet with drops of death,
Held into light eternal, and again
Cast down, to be again uplift in vast
And infinite succession, cannot stay
The mad momentum.
SYDNEY DOBELL
ENGLAND
From < Balder >
THIS dear English land!
This happy England, loud with brooks and birds,
Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees,
And bloomed from hill to dell: but whose best flowers
Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair
Than any rose she weaves ; whose noblest floods
The pulsing torrent of a nation's heart;
Whose forests stronger than her native oaks
Are living men ; and whose unfathomed lakes,
Forever calm, the unforgotten dead
In quiet grave-yards willowed seemly round,
O'er which To-day bends sad, and sees his face.
Whose rocks are rights, consolidate of old
Through unremembered years, around whose base
The ever-surging peoples roll and roar
Perpetual, as around her cliffs the seas
That only wash them whiter; and whose mountains,
Souls that from this mere footing of the earth
Lift their great virtues through all clouds of Fate
Up to the very heavens, and make them rise
To keep the gods above us!
AMERICA
NOR force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye
Who north or south, or east or western land,
Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God
For God; O ye who in eternal youth
Speak with a living and creative flood
This universal English, and do stand
Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand
Heroic utterance — parted, yet a whole,
Far, yet unsevered, — children brave and free
Of the great Mother tongue, and ye shall be
Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's soul,
Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme,
And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.
SYDNEY DOBELL
AMY'S SONG OF THE WILLOW
From < Balder >
THE years they come, and the years they go,
Like winds that blow from sea to sea;
From dark to dark they come and go,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
Down by the stream there be two sweet willows,
— Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow, —
One hale, one blighted, two wedded willows,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
She is blighted, the fair young willow;
— Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow, —
She hears the spring-blood beat in the bark;
She hears the spring-leaf bud on the bough ;
But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
The stream runs sparkling under the willow,
— Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow, —
The summer rose-leaves drop in the stream;
The winter oak-leaves drop in the stream;
But she bends blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the dew-fall and the rain.
Sometimes the wind lifts the bright stream to her,
— Hush thee, babe, while the wild winds blow, —
The false stream sinks, and her tears fall faster;
Because she touched it her tears fall faster;
Over the stream her tears fall faster,
All in the sunshine or the rain.
The years they come, and the years they go;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
And under mine eyes shines the bright life-river;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
Sweet sounds the spring in the hale green willow,
The goodly green willow, the green waving willow,
Sweet in the willow, the wind- whispering willow;
Sing well-away, sing well-away!
But I bend blighted, the wan weeping willow,
All in the sun, and the dew, and the rain.
4741
AUSTIN DOBSON
(1840-)
BY ESTHER SINGLETON
FIRST thought it seems difficult to consider Austin Dobson
as belonging to the Victorian period, so entirely is he sat-
urated with the spirit of the eighteenth century. A careful
study of his verse' reveals the fact that the Georgian era, seen
through the vista of his poetic imagination, is divested of all that is
coarse, dark, gross, and prosaic. The mental atmosphere and the
types and characters that he gives, express only beauty and charm.
One approaches the poems of Austin Dob-
son as one stands before a- rare collection
of enamels, fan-mounts, jeweled snuff-boxes,
and delicate carvings in ivory and silver; and
after delighting in the beauty and finish of
these graceful curios, passes into a gallery of
paintings and water-colors, suggesting Wat-
teau, Fragonard, Boucher, Meissonier, and
Greuze. We also wander among trim box-
hedges and quaint gardens of roses and bright
hollyhocks; lean by sun-dials to watch the
shadow of Time; and enjoy the sight of gay
belles, patched and powdered and dressed in
brocaded gowns and gypsy hats. Gallant
beaux, such as are associated with Reynolds's
portraits, appear, and hand them into sedan-chairs or lead them
through stately minuets to the notes of Rameau, Couperin, and Arne.
Just as the scent of rose-leaves, lavender, and musk rises from
antique Chinese jars, so Dobson's delicate verse reconstructs a life
(<Of fashion gone, and half -forgotten ways.w
He is equally at home in France. Nothing could be more sym-
pathetic and exquisite than <A Revolutionary Relic,' < The Cure's
Progress, > 'Une Marquise,' and the ( Proverbs in Porcelain, > one of
which is cited below.
In the < Vers de Societe, J as well as his other poetry, Dobson
fulfills all the requirements of light verse — charm, mockery, pathos,
banter, and, while apparently skimming the surface, often shows us
AUSTIN DOBSON
AUSTIN DOBSON
the strange depths of the human heart. He blends so many qualities
that he deserves the praise of T. B. Aldrich, who says, « Austin
Dobson has the grace of Suckling and the finish of Herrick, and is
easily master of both in metrical art.**
Henry Austin Dobson, the son of Mr. George Clarisse Dobson, a
civil engineer, was born in Plymouth, England, January i8th 1840.
His early years were spent in Anglesea, and after receiving his edu-
cation in Beaumaris, Coventry, and Strasburg, he returned to England
to become a civil engineer. In 1856 he entered the civil service of
Great Britain, and ever since that date he has held offices in the
Board of Trade. His leisure was devoted to literature, and when
Anthony Trollope first issued his magazine St. Paul's in 1868, he
introduced to the public the verse of Austin Dobson. In 1873 his
fugitive poems were published in a small volume entitled Vignettes
in Rhyme* and <Vers de Societe.* This was followed in 1877 by
< Proverbs in Porcelain,* and both books, with additional poems, were
printed again in two volumes: <Old World Idylls * (1883), and <At the
Sign of the Lyre* (1885). Mr. Dobson's original essays are contained
in three volumes: ( Four Frenchwomen,* studies of Charlotte Corday,
Madame Roland, the Princess de Lamballe, and Madame de Genlis
(1890), and < Eighteenth-Century Vignettes* (first series 1892, second
series 1894), which touch upon a host of picturesque and fascinating
themes. He has written also several biographies: of Hogarth, of
Fielding, of Steele (1886), of Goldsmith (1888), and a ( Memoir of
Horace Walpole* (1890). He has also written felicitous critical intro-
ductions to many new editions of the eighteenth-century classics.
Austin Dobson has been most happy in breathing English life into
the old poems of French verse, such as ballades, villanelles, roun-
dels, and rondeaux; and he has also written clever and satirical
fables, cast in the form and temper of Gay and Prior, with quaint
obsolete affectations, redolent of the classic age of Anne.
So serious is his attitude towards art, and so large his audience,
that the hope expressed in the following rondeau will certainly be
realized: —
IN AFTER days, when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honored dust,
I shall not question nor reply.
I shall not see the morning sky,
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh ;
I shall be mute, as all men must,
In after days.
AUSTIN DOBSON
But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying — He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust.
Will none ? — Then let my memory die
In after days!
4743
"A"
ON A NANKIN PLATE
VlLLANELLE
ME, but it might have been !
Was there ever so dismal a fate ? }>
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
<(Such a maid as was never seen:
She passed, tho' I cried to her, <Wait,) —
Ah me, but it might have been!
<( I cried, ( O my Flower, my Queen,
Be mineP — 'Twas precipitate, w
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
(< But then . . . she was just sixteen,
Long-eyed, as a lily straight, —
Ah me, but it might have been!
(<As it was, from her palankeen
She laughed — < You're a week too late ! ) »
(Quoth the little blue mandarin.)
<(That is why, in a mist of spleen
I mourn on this Nankin Plate.
Ah me, but it might have been!"
Quoth the little blue mandarin.
A^AA AUSTIN DOBSON
4744
THE OLD SEDAN-CHAIR
« What's not destroyed by Time's devouring Hand ?
Where's Troy, — and where's the May-Pole in the Strand ?»
— BRAMSTON'S <ART OF POLITICKS.*
IT STANDS in the stable-yard, under the eaves,
Propped up by a broomstick and covered with leaves;
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin, — that old Sedan-chair!
It is battered and tattered, — it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square
Like a canvas by Wilkie. — that old Sedan-chair.
See, here come the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers — when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered, — that old Sedan-chair.
" Where's Troy?M says the poet! Look; under the seat
Is a nest with four eggs; 'tis a favored retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan-chair.
And yet — Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window, — some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan-chair ?
Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan-chair?
Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows! — but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan-chair!
It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade w ;
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited — and waited, that old Sedan-chair!
AUSTIN DOBSON
Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fete-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan-chair!
((Heu! quantum mutata? I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it, — (<With Care,* —
To a Fine- Art Museum — that old Sedan-chair.
THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME
WHEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a <( formal cut," —
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the (< golden prime, }>
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, —
Then hey ! for the ripple of laughing rhyme !
In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut,
In a changing quarrel of <( Ayes w and (< Noes, w
In a starched procession of "If" and "But," —
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told (< that no one knows, w —
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
ENVOY
In the work-a-day world, — for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
4745
4746
M
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE CURE'S PROGRESS
ONSIEUR THE CuR£ down the street
Comes with his kind old face, —
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
You may see him pass by the little (< Grande Place?
And the tiny «Hdtel-de- Ville »;
He smiles as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Theophile.
He turns as a rule through the ^Marche"* cool,
Where the noisy fishwives call;
And his compliment pays to the * belle The'resc*
As she knits in her dusky stall.
There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes
In his tails for a pain (fc'pice.
There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a w Ma foi, out! w
And a pinch from the Cure's box.
There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a *Bon Dieu garde M'sieu /»
But a grander way for the Sous-Prtfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock <( off-hat w to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan: —
For ever through life the Cure goes
With a smile on his kind old face —
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
AUSTIN DOBSON 4747
« GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE »
<( Si vieillesse pouvait ! »
SCENE. — A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired
old gentleman.
M. VIEUXBOIS [turning querulously]
Day of my life ! Where can she get ?
BABETTE ! I say ! BABETTE ! — BABETTE !
BABETTE [entering hurriedly}
Coming, M'sieu' ! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud, he won't be well for weeks!
M. VIEUXBOIS
Where have you been ?
BABETTE
Why, M'sieu' knows: —
April! . . . Ville-d' Avray! . . . Ma'm'selle ROSE!
M. VIEUXBOIS
Ah! I am old, — and I forget.
Was the place growing green, BABETTE ?
BABETTE
But of a greenness! — Yes, M'sieu'!
And then the sky so blue! — so blue!
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang!
{Lifting her apron to her eyes.]
This poor Ma'm'selle!
M. VIEUXBOIS
You're a good girl, BABETTE, but she, —
She was an angel, verily.
Sometimes I think I see her yet
Stand smiling by the cabinet;
And once, I know, she peeped and laughed
Betwixt the curtains. . . .
Where's the draught?
[She gives him a cuf.]
Now I shall sleep, I think, BABETTE; —
Sing me your Norman chansonnette.
4748
AUSTIN DOBSON
BABETTE [sings]
w Once at the Angelus
{Ere I was dead),
Angels all glorious
Came to my bed; —
Angels in blue and white,
Crowned on the head*
M. VIEUXBOIS [drowsily]
(< She was an Angel tt . . . " Once she laughed w . . .
What! was I dreaming?
Where's the draught?
BABETTE {showing the empty cup]
The draught, M'sieu' ?
M. VIEUXBOIS
How I forget!
I am so old! But sing, BABETTE!
BABETTE [sings]
" One was the Friend I left
Stark in the Snow;
One was the Wife that died
Long, — long ago;
One was the Love I lost —
How could she know ? "
M. VIEUXBOIS [murmuring]
Ah PAUL! . . . old PAUL! . . . EULALIE, too!
And ROSE . . . And O! «the sky so blue!»
BABETTE [sings]
(< One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;
One had my Father's face;
One was a Child:
All of them bent to me, —
Bent down and smiled 7W
[He is asleep!]
M. VIEUXBOIS [almost inaudibly']
How I forget!
I am so old! . . . Good-night, BABETTE!
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE LADIES OP ST. JAMES'S
A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN
<(Phyllida amo ante alias.* — VIRGIL.
THE ladies of St. James's
Go swinging to the play;
Their footmen run before them
With a « Stand by ! Clear the way ! »
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She takes her buckled shoon,
When we go out a-courting
Beneath the harvest moon.
The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May-dew
Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily, —
It wavers like a rose.
The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
4749
AUSTIN DOBSON
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's!
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you — for seconds;
They frown on you — for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true — and mine.
My Phyllida! my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be, —
For Phyllida, my Phyllida,
Is all the world to me.
DORA VERSUS ROSE
«The Case is Proceeding &
FROM the tragic-est novels at Mudie's —
At least on a practical plan —
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
Each rivals the other in powers —
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints -
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do., perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly, —
Or Buridan's ass.
AUSTIN DOBSON
If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do. 's,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend, «To Rose."
Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all over scrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
Was there ever so sad a dilemma ?
For Rose I would perish (J>ro tern.};
For Dora I'd willingly stem a —
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election, —
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple, — a grain, — more affection,
I cannot decide.
And as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis, —
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
(AFTER-THOUGHT)
But perhaps if a third (say, a Norah),
Not quite so delightful as Rose,
Nor wholly so charming as Dora,
Should appear, is it wrong to suppose, —
As the claims of the others are equal, —
And flight — in the main — is the best, —
That I might . . . But no matter, — the sequel
Is easily guessed.
4751
AUSTIN DOBSON
UNE MARQUISE
A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE
« Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour.»
I
As YOU sit there at your ease,
O Marquise!
And the men flock round your knees
Thick as bees,
Mute at every word you utter,
Servants to your least frill-flutter,
« Belle Marquise!*
As you sit there, growing prouder,
And your ringed hands glance and go,
And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder,
And your <( beaux yeux * flash and glow ; -
Ah, you used them on the Painter,
As you know,
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter.
Bowing low,
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy
That each sitter was not Circe, —
Or at least he told you so; —
Growing proud, I say, and prouder
To the crowd that come and go,
Dainty Deity of Powder,
Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,
As you sit where lustres strike you,
Sure to please,
Do we love you most, or like you,
* Belle Marquise!*
You are fair; oh yes, we know it
Well, Marquise;
For he swore it, your last poet,
On his knees;
And he called all heaven to witness
Of his ballad and its fitness,
« Belle Marquise!*
You were everything in ere
(With exception of severe}, —
AUSTIN DOBSON 4753
You were cruelle and rebelle,
With the rest of rhymes as well;
You were ((Reine* and ((Mtre d' Amour*;
You were ^Ve"nus a Cythere*;
<( Sappho mise en Pompadour?
And ^Minerve en Parabere*;
You had every grace of heaven
In your most angelic face,
With the nameless finer leaven
Lent of blood and courtly race;
And he added, too, in duty,
Ninon's wit and Boufflers's beauty;
And La Valliere's yeux veloutis
Followed these;
And you liked it, when he said it
(On his knees),
And you kept it, and you read it,
(< Belle Marquise!*
in
Yet with us your toilet graces
Fail to please,
And the last of your last faces,
And your mise;
For we hold you just as real,
<( Belle Marquise!*
As your Bergers and Bergtres,
Tes d' Amour and Batelttres;
As your pares, and your Versailles,
Gardens, grottoes, and socailles;
As your Naiads and your trees; —
Just as near the old ideal
Calm and ease,
As the Venus there by Coustou,
That a fan would make quite flighty,
Is to her the gods were used to, —
Is to grand Greek Aphrodite,
Sprung from seas.
You are just a porcelain trifle,
« Belle Marquise!*
Just a thing of puffs and patches
Made for madrigals and catches,
Not for heart- wounds, but for scratches,
O Marquise1
vni — 298
4754
AUSTIN DOBSON
Just a pinky porcelain trifle,
* Belle Marquise!*
Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry,
Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless; — but to marry,
No, Marquise!
IV
For your Cupid, you have clipped him,
Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him,
And with chapeau-bras equipped him,
« Belle Marquise!*
Just to arm you through your wife-time,
And the languors of your lifetime,
« Belle Marquise!*
Say, to trim your toilet tapers
Or — to twist your hair in papers,
Or — to wean you from the vapors; —
As for these,
You are worth the love they give you,
Till a fairer face outlive you,
Or a younger grace shall please;
Till the coming of the crows'-feet,
And the backward turn of beaux' feet,
« Belle Marquise!*
Till your frothed-out life's commotion
Settles down to Ennui's ocean,
Or a dainty sham devotion,
« Belle Marquise!*
No: we neither like nor love you,
* Belle Marquise!*
Lesser lights we place above you, —
Milder merits better please.
We have passed from Philosoph
Into plainer modern days, —
Grown contented in our oafdom,
Giving grace not all the praise,
And, en partant, Arsinoe', —
Without malice whatsoever, —
We shall counsel to our Chloe
To be rather good than clever;
AUSTIN DOBSON
For we find it hard to smother
Just one little thought, Marquise!
Wittier perhaps than any other, —
You were neither Wife nor Mother,
(< Belle Marquise!*
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH
OF THE SPANISH ARMADA
KING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us, —
And where are the galleons of Spain ?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, —
For where are the galleons of Spain ?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us:
He must play at some lustier games.
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
To tug at his bullet and chain;
Alas! that his Greatness should lack us! —
But where are the galleons of Spain ?
ENVOY
GLORIANA! — the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us, . . .
And where are the galleons of Spain ?
4755
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE
From < Four Frenchwomen >
A TENDER wife, a loving daughter, and a loyal friend, — shall
we not here lay down upon the grave of Marie de Lam-
balle our reverential tribute, our little chaplet of immor-
telles, in the name of all good women, wives, and daughters?
(< Elle e'tait mieux femme que les autres, w * To us that appar-
ently indefinite, exquisitely definite sentence most fitly marks
the distinction between the subjects of the two preceding papers
and the subject of the present. It is a transition from the
stately figure of a marble Agrippina to the breathing, feeling
woman at your side; it is the transition from the statuesque
Rachelesque heroines of a David to the "small sweet idylM of
a Greuze. And, we confess it, we were not wholly at ease
with those tragic, majestic figures. We shuddered at the dagger
and the bowl which suited them so well. We marveled at their
bloodless serenity, their superhuman self-sufficiency; inly we
questioned if they breathed and felt. Or was their circulation a
matter of machinery — a mere dead-beat escapement? We longed
for the sexe prononce" of Rivarol — we longed for the showman's
w female woman ! " We respected and we studied, but we did
not love them. With Madame de Lamballe the case is other-
wise. Not grand like this one, not heroic like that one, ue//e est
mieux femme que les autres. "
She at least is woman — after a fairer fashion — after a truer
type. Not intellectually strong like Manon Philipon, not Spar-
tan-souled like Marie de Corday, she has still a rare intelligence,
a courage of affection. She has that clairvoyance of the heart
which supersedes all the stimulants of mottoes from Reynel or
maxims from Rousseau; she has that "angel instinct* which is
a juster lawgiver than Justinian. It was thought praise to say
of the Girondist lady that she was a greater man than her hus-
band; it is praise to say of this queen's friend that she was
more woman than Madame Roland. Not so grand, not so great,
we like the princess best. Elle est mieux femme que les autres.
* She was more woman than the others.
4757
MARY MAPES DODGE
(1840?-)
!o WRITE a story which in thirty years should pass through
more than a hundred editions, which should attain the apo-
theosis of an edition de luxe, which should be translated into
at least four foreign languages, be allotted the Montyon prize of 1500
francs for moral as well as literary excellence, and be crowned by
the French Academy — this is a piece of good fortune which falls to
the lot of few story-tellers. The book which has deserved so well is
(Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates,* a story of life in Holland. Its
author, born in New York, is a daughter of
Professor James Jay Mapes, an eminent
chemist and inventor, an accomplished
writer and brilliant talker.
In a household where music, art, and
literature were cultivated, and where the
most agreeable society came, talents were
not likely to be overlooked. Mrs. Dodge,
very early widowed, began writing before
she was twenty, publishing short stories,
sketches, and poems in various periodicals.
(Hans Brinker ) appeared in 1864, — her de-
light in Motley's histories and their appeal
to her own Dutch blood inspiring her to
write it. Of this book Mr. Frank R. Stock-
ton says: —
MARY MAPES DODGE
« The re are strong reasons why the fairest orange groves, the loftiest
mountain peaks, or the inspiriting waves of the rolling sea, could not tempt
average boys and girls from the level stretches of the Dutch canals, until they
had skated through the sparkling story, warmed with a healthy glow.
(<This is not only a tale of vivid description, interesting and instructive;
it is a romance. There are adventures, startling and surprising, there are
mysteries of buried gold, there are the machinations of the wicked, there is
the heroism of the good, and the gay humor of happy souls. More than
these, there is love — that sentiment which glides into a good story as natu-
rally as into a human life ; and whether the story be for old or young, this
element gives it an ever-welcome charm. Strange fortune and good fortune
come to Hans and to Gretel, and to many other deserving characters in the
tale, but there is nothing selfish about these heroes and heroines. As soon as
MARY MAPES DODGE
a new generation of young people grows up to be old enough to enjoy this
perennial story, all these characters return to the days of their youth, and
are ready to act their parts again to the very end, and to feel in their own
souls, as everybody else feels, that their story is just as new and interesting
as when it was first told.»
Besides this book, Mrs. Dodge has published several volumes of
juvenile verse, such as ( Rhymes and Jingles,* and ( When Life was
Young*; a volume of serious verse, < Along the Way*; a volume of
satirical and humorous sketches, * Theophilus and Others * ; a second
successful story for young people, ( Donald and Dorothy,* and a
number of other works. Her stories evince an unusual faculty of
construction and marked inventiveness, — inherited perhaps from
her father, — truthful characterization, literary feeling, a strong sense
of humor, and a high ethical standard. Her whimsical character
sketch, <Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question,* which has been
reprinted thousands of times and repeated by every elocutionist in
the land, is in its way as searching a satire as Bret Harte's * Heathen
Chinee.*
Since its beginning in 1873, Mrs. Dodge has edited the St. Nicholas
Magazine, whose pages bear witness to her enormous industry.
THE RACE
From <Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates.> Copyright 1896, by Charles
Scribner*s Sons
THE 2oth of December came at last, bringing with it the per-
fection of winter weather. All over the level landscape lay
the warm sunlight. It tried its power on lake, canal, and
river; but the ice flashed defiance, and showed no sign of melt-
ing. The very weathercocks stood still to enjoy the sight. This
gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly all the past week they
had been whirling briskly; now, being rather out of breath, they
rocked lazily in the clear still air. Catch a windmill working
when the weathercocks have nothing to do!
There was an end to grinding, crushing, and sawing for that
day. It was a good thing for the millers near Broek. Long
before noon, they concluded to take in their sails and go to
the race. Everybody would be there. Already the north side
of the frozen Y was bordered with eager spectators; the news
of the great skating-match had traveled far and wide. Men,
women, and children, in holiday attire, were flocking toward the
spot. Some wore furs and wintry cloaks or shawls; but many,
MARY MAPES DODGE
4759
consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were dressed
as for an October day.
The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near
Amsterdam, on that great arm of the Zuyder Zee, which Dutch-
men of course must call the Eye. The townspeople turned out
in large numbers. Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance
to see what was to be seen. Many a peasant from the north-
ward had wisely chosen the 2oth as the day for the next city-
trading. It seemed that everybody, young and old, who had
wheels, skates, or feet at command, had hastened to the scene.
There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians
fresh from the Boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uni-
forms; girls from the Roman Catholic Orphan House, in sable
gowns and white head -bands; boys from the Burgher Asylum,
with their black tights and short-skirted harlequin coats. There
were old-fashioned gentlemen in cocked hats and velvet knee-
breeches; old-fashioned ladies too, in stiff quilted skirts and
bodices of dazzling brocade. These were accompanied by serv-
ants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. There were the peasant folk,
arrayed in every possible Dutch costume, — shy young rustics in
brazen buckles; simple village maidens concealing their flaxen
hair under fillets of gold; women whose long narrow aprons were
stiff with embroidery; women with short corkscrew curls hanging
over their foreheads; women with shaved heads and close-fitting
caps, and women in striped skirts and windmill bonnets; men
in leather, in homespun, in velvet and broadcloth; burghers in
modern European attire, and burghers in short jackets, wide trou-
sers, and steeple-crowned hats.
There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and
coarse petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads,
finished at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace
a century old. Some wore necklaces, pendants, and earrings of
the purest gold. Many were content with gilt, or even with
brass; but it is not an uncommon thing for a Friesland woman
to have all the family treasure in her headgear. More than one
rustic lass displayed the value of two thousand guilders upon her
head that day.
Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the Island
of Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the widest of
breeches; also women from Marken, with short blue petticoats,
and black jackets gayly figured in front. They wore red sleeves,
4760 MARY MAPES DODGE
white aprons, and a cap like a bishop's mitre over their golden
hair.
The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their
elders. In short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped
bodily from a collection of Dutch paintings.
Everywhere could be seen tall women and stumpy men, lively-
faced girls, and youths whose expressions never changed from
sunrise to sunset.
There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known
town in Holland. There were Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda
cheese-makers, Delft pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam
diamond- cutters, Rotterdam merchants, dried-up herring-packers,
and two sleepy-eyed shepherds from Texel. Every man of them
had his pipe and tobacco pouch. Some carried what might be
called the smoker's complete outfit, — a pipe, tobacco, a pricker
with which to clean the tube, a silver net for protecting the bowl,
and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches.
A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his
pipe on any possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to
breathe; but when the pipe is forgotten, he must be dying in-
deed. There were no such sad cases here. Wreaths of smoke
were rising from every possible quarter. The more fantastic the
smoke-wreath, the more placid and solemn the smoker.
Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea.
They can look over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see
those little bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious
legs. They have such a resolute look on their round faces, what
wonder that nervous old gentlemen with tender feet wince and
tremble while the long-legged little monsters stride past them!
You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet
people. So they are, generally. But listen! did you ever hear
such a din ? All made up of human voices — no, the horses are
helping somewhat, and the fiddles are squeaking pitifully; (how
it must pain fiddles to be tuned!) but the mass of the sound
comes from the great vox humana that belongs to a crowd.
That queer little dwarf, going about with a heavy basket,
winding in and out among the people, helps not a little. You
can hear his shrill cry above all other sounds, (< Pypen en tabac !
Pypen en tabac ! w
Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger,
is selling doughnuts and bonbons. He is calling on all pretty
MARY MAPES DODGE
4761
children, far and near, to come quickly or the cakes will be
gone.
You know quite a number among the spectators. High up
in yonder pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some
persons whom you have seen very lately. In the centre is
Madame Van Gleck. It is her birthday, you remember; she has
the post of honor. There is Mynheer Van Gleck, whose meer-
schaum has not really grown fast to his lips; it only appears so.
There are Grandfather and Grandmother, whom you met at the
St. Nicholas fete. All the children are with them. It is so
mild, they have brought even the baby. The poor little creature
is swaddled very much after the manner of an Egyptian mummy ;
but it can crow with delight, and when the band is playing,
open and shut its animated mittens in perfect time to the music.
Grandfather, with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, makes
quite a picture as he holds Baby upon his knee. Perched high
upon their canopied platforms, the party can see all that is going
on. No wonder the ladies look complacently at the glassy ice;
with a stove for a footstool, one might sit cosily beside the North
Pole.
There is a gentleman with them, who somewhat resembles
St. Nicholas as he appeared to the young Van Glecks on the
fifth of December. But the Saint had a flowing white beard, and
this face is as smooth as a pippin. His Saintship was larger
round the body too, and (between ourselves) he had a pair of
thimbles in his mouth, which this gentleman certainly has not.
It cannot be St. Nicholas, after all.
Near by in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps, with their son
and daughter (the Van Gends) from The Hague. Peter's sister
is not one to forget her promises. She has brought bouquets of
exquisite hot-house flowers for the winners.
These pavilions,— and there are others beside, — have all been
erected since daylight. That semicircular one, containing Myn-
heer Korbes's family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hol-
landers are quite skilled at tent-making; but I like the Van
Glecks' best, — the centre one, striped red and white, and hung
with evergreens.
The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those
pagoda-like affairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers of every
possible hue, are the judges' stands; and those columns and flag-
staffs upon the ice mark the limit of the race-course. The two
4762
MARY MAPES DODGE
white columns twined with green, connected at the top by that
long floating strip of drapery, form the starting-point. Those
flagstaffs, half a mile off, stand at each end of the boundary line,
cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to the skaters, though not
deep enough to trip them when they turn to come back to the
starting-point.
The air is so clear, it seems scarcely possible that the col-
umns and flagstaffs are so far apart. Of course the judges'
stands are but little nearer together. Half a mile on the ice,
when the atmosphere is like this, is but a short distance after
all, especially when fenced with a living chain of spectators.
The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy
itself in the open air! The fiddles have forgotten their agony,
and everything is harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent,
it seems that the music springs from the sunshine, it is so bound-
less, so joyous. Only the musicians are solemn.
Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white
columns. It is a beautiful sight, — forty boys and girls in pictur-
esque attire, darting with electric swiftness in and out among
each other, or sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting,
whispering, in the fullness of youthful glee.
A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; oth-
ers, halting on one leg, with flushed eager faces, suddenly cross
the suspected skate over their knee, give it an examining shake,
and dart off again. One and all are possessed with the spirit
of motion. They cannot stand still. Their skates are a part of
them, and every runner seems bewitched.
Holland is the place for skaters, after all. Where else can
nearly every boy. and girl perform feats on the ice that would
attract a crowd if seen on Central Park ? Look at Ben ! I did
not see him before. He is really astonishing the natives; no
easy thing to do in the Netherlands. Save your strength, Ben;
you will need it soon. Now other boys are trying! Ben is sur-
passed already. Such jumping, such poising, such spinning, such
india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a red cap is the
lion now; his back is a watch-spring, his body is cork — no, it is
iron, or it would snap at that. He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, a
corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball, all in an instant. When you
think he is erect, he is down; and when you think he is down,
he is up. He drops his glove on the ice, and turns a somerset
as he picks it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from
MARY MAPES DODGE
4763
Jacob Foot's astonished head, and claps it back again "hind side
before.* Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It is
arctic weather under your feet, but more than temperate over-
head. Big drops already are rolling down your forehead. Su-
perb skater as you are, you may lose the race.
A French traveler, standing with a notebook in his hand, sees
our English friend Ben buy a doughnut of the dwarf's brother,
and eat it. Thereupon he writes in his note-book that the Dutch
take enormous mouthfuls, and universally are fond of potatoes
boiled in molasses.
There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lam-
bert, Ludwig, Peter, and Carl are all there, cool, and in good
skating order. Hans is not far off. Evidently he is going to
join in the race, for his skates are on, — the very pair that he
sold for seven guilders. He had soon suspected that his fairy
godmother was the mysterious "friend" who bought them. This
settled, he had boldly charged her with the deed; and she,
knowing well that all her little savings had been spent in the
purchase, had not had the face to deny it. Through the fairy
god-mother, too, he had been rendered amply able to buy them
back again. Therefore Hans is to be in the race. Carl is more
indignant than ever about it; but as three other peasant boys
have entered, Hans is not alone.
Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter by this time are
standing in front, braced for the start; for they are to have the
first "run.* Hilda, Rychie, and Katrinka are among them. Two
or three bend hastily to give a last pull at their skate-straps. It
is pretty to see them stamp, to be sure that all is firm. Hilda
is speaking pleasantly to a graceful little creature in a red jacket
and a new brown petticoat. Why, it is Gretel! What a differ-
ence those pretty shoes make; and the skirt and the new cap!
Annie Bouman is there too. Even Janzoon Kolp's sister has been
admitted; but Janzoon himself has been voted out by the direct-
ors because he killed the stork, and only last summer was caught
in the act of robbing a bird's nest, — a legal offense in Holland.
This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was — There, I cannot tell the
story just now. The race is about to commence.
Twenty girls are formed in a line. The music has ceased.
A man whom we shall call the crier stands between the col-
umns and the first judges' stand. He reads the rules in a loud
voice : —
4764
MARY MAPES DODGE
(< The girls and boys are to race in turn, tmtil one girl and
one boy have beaten twice. They are to start in a line from the
imited columns, skate to the flagstaff line, turn, and then come
back to the starting-point; thus making a mile at each run."
A flag is waved from the judges' stand. Madame Van Gleck
rises in her pavilion. She leans forward with a white handker-
chief in her hand. When she drops it, a bugler is to give the
signal for them to start.
The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark!
They are off!
No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the
judges' stand.
The signal is repeated.
Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast they got
The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager,
breathless watching.
Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! five
girls are ahead. Who conies flying back from the boundary
mark ? We cannot tell. Something red, that is all. There is a
blue spot flitting near it, and a dash of yellow nearer still.
Spectators at this end of the line strain their eyes, and wish
they had taken their post nearer the flagstaff.
The wave of cheers is coming back again. Now we can see.
Katrinka is ahead!
She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame Van
Gleck's. That leaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda
shoots past Katrinka, waving her hand to her mother as she
passes. Two others are close now, whizzing on like arrows.
What is that flash of red and gray ? Hurrah, it is Gretel ! She
too waves her hand, but toward no gay pavilion. The crowd is
cheering; but she hears only her father's voice, (<Well done,
little Gretel ! w Soon Katrinka, with a quick merry laugh, shoots
past Hilda. The girl in yellow is gaining now. She passes
them all, — all except Gretel. The judges lean forward without
seeming to lift their eyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer
fills the air; the very columns seem rocking. Gretel has passed
them. She has won.
<( GRETEL BRINKER, ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which
each holds in his hand.
MARY MAPES DODGE
4765
While the girls are resting, — some crowding eagerly around
our frightened little Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain,
— the boys form in a line.
Mynheer Van Gleck drops the handkerchief this time. The
buglers give a vigorous blast. Off start the boys!
Half-way already. Did ever you see the like!
Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there are
only twenty boys. No matter; there were hundreds of legs, I
am sure. Where are they now ? There is such a noise one gets
bewildered. What are the people laughing at ? Oh ! at that fat
boy in the rear. See him go! See him! He'll be down in an
instant; no, he won't. I wonder if he knows he is all alone: the
other boys are nearly at the boundary line. Yes, he knows it.
He stops. He wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap, and
looks about him. Better to give up with a good grace. He has
made a hundred friends by that hearty, astonished laugh. Good
Jacob Foot!
The fine fellow is already among the spectators, gazing as
eagerly as the rest.
A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as
they (< bring to, w and turn at the flagstaff s.
Something black is coming now, — one of the boys; it is all we
know. He has touched the vox humana stop of the crowd; it
fairly roars. Now they come nearer; we can see the red cap.
There's Ben, there's Peter, there's Hans!
Hans is ahead. Young Madame Van Gend almost crushes
the flowers in her hand: she had been quite sure that Peter
would be first. Carl Schummel is next, then Ben, and the youth
with the red cap. The others are pressing close. A tall figure
darts from among them. He passes the red cap, he passes Ben,
then Carl. Now it is an even race between him and Hans.
Madame Van Gend catches her breath.
It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda's
eyes fill with tears: Peter must beat. Annie's eyes flash proudly.
Gretel gazes with clasped hands: four strokes more will take her
brother to the columns.
He is there! Yes; but so was young Schummel just a second
before. At the last instant, Carl, gathering his powers, had
whizzed between them, and passed the goal.
<(CARL SCHUMMEL, ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
MARY MAPES DODGE
Soon Madame Van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief
starts the bugle, and the bugle, using its voice as a bowstring,
shoots off twenty girls like so many arrows.
It is a beautiful sight ; but one has not long to look : before
we can fairly distinguish them they are far in the distance.
This time they are close upon one another. It is hard to say,
as they come speeding back from the flagstaff, which will reach
the columns first. There are new faces among the foremost, —
eager glowing faces, unnoticed before. Katrinka is there, and
Hilda; but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear. Gretel is waver-
ing, but when Rychie passes her she starts forward afresh. Now
they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is still in advance: she
is almost "home." She has not faltered since that bugle note
sent her flying: like an arrow, still she is speeding toward the
goal. Cheer after cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent, but
his eyes shine like stars. <( Huzza. I Huzza. I n
The crier's voice is heard again.
"HILDA VAN GLECK, ONE MILE!M
A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching
the music in its course, till all seems one sound, with a glad
rhythmic throbbing in its depths. When the flag waves all is
still.
Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the
boys like chaff before the wind, — dark chaff, I admit, and in big
pieces.
It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by the
cheers and shouts along the line. We begin to see what is com-
ing. There are three boys in advance this time, and all abreast,
-Hans, Peter, and Lambert. Carl soon breaks the ranks, rush-
ing through with a whiff. Fly, Hans; fly, Peter; don't let Carl
beat again! — Carl the bitter, Carl the insolent. Van Mounen is
flagging, but you are as strong as ever. Hans and Peter, Peter
and Hans; which is foremost? We love them both. We scarcely
care which is the fleeter.
Hilda, Annie, and Gretel, seated upon the long crimson bench,
can remain quiet no longer. They spring to their feet, so dif-
ferent! and yet one in eagerness. Hilda instantly reseats her-
self: none shall know how interested she is; none shall know
how anxious, how filled with one hope. Shut your eyes then,
Hilda, hide your face rippling with joy. Peter has beaten.
MARY MAPES DODGE
4767
<( PETER VAN HOLP, ONE MILE!" calls the crier.
The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take
notes, the same throbbing of music through the din; but some-
thing is different. A little crowd presses close about some
object near the column. Carl has fallen. He is not hurt, though
somewhat stunned. If he were less sullen, he would find more
sympathy in these warm young hearts. As it is, they forget him
as soon as he is fairly on his feet again.
The girls are to skate their third mile.
How resolute the little maidens look, as they stand in a line!
Some are solemn with a sense of responsibility; some wear a
smile, half bashful, half provoked; but one air of determination
pervades them all.
This third mile may decide the race. Still, if neither Gretel
nor Hilda win, there is yet a chance among the rest for the
silver skates.
Each girl feels sure that this time she will accomplish the
distance in one-half the time. How they stamp to try their
runners! How nervously they examine each strap! How erect
they stand at last, every eye upon Madame Van Gleck!
The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eager-
ness they spring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each
flashing stroke seems longer than the last.
Now they are skimming off in the distance.
Again the eager straining of eyes; again the shouts and
cheering; again the thrill of excitement, as after a few moments,
four or five in advance of the rest come speeding back, nearer,
nearer to the white columns.
Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor
the girl in yellow, but Gretel, — Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a
girl that ever skated. She was but playing in the earlier race:
now she is in earnest, or rather, something within her has deter-
mined to win. That blithe little form makes no effort; but it
cannot stop, — not until the goal is passed!
In vain the crier lifts his voice: he cannot be heard. He has
no news to tell: it is already ringing through the crowd, — Gretel
has won the silver skates!
Like a bird she has flown over the ice; like a bird she looks
about her in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the
sheltered nook where her father and mother stand. But Hans is
beside her; the girls are crowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous
4768
MARY MAPES DODGE
voice breathes in her ear. From that hour none will despise her.
Goose-girl or not, Gretel stands acknowledged Queen of the
Skaters.
With natural pride, Hans turns to see if Peter Van Holp is
witnessing his sister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward
them at all. He is kneeling, bending his troubled face low, and
working hastily at his skate-strap. Hans is beside him at once.
" Are you in trouble, mynheer ? w
<(Ah, Hans! that you? Yes; my fun is over. I tried to
tighten my strap to make a new hole, and this botheration of a
knife has cut it nearly in two."
(< Mynheer, " said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate,
" you must use my strap ! M
<( Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker!" cried Peter, looking up;
"though I thank you warmly. Go to your post, my friend: the
bugle will sound in a minute."
" Mynheer, " pleaded Hans in a husky voice, " you have called
me your friend. Take this strap — quick! There is not an
instant to lose. I shall not skate this time: indeed, I am out of
practice. Mynheer, you must take it ; " and Hans, blind and
deaf to any remonstrance, slipped his strap into Peter's skate,
and implored him to put it on.
"Come, Peter!" cried Lambert from the line: "we are wait-
ing for you.w
"For Madame's sake," pleaded Hans, "be quick! She is
motioning to you to join the racers. There, the skate is almost
on: quick, mynheer, fasten it. I could not possibly win. The
race lies between Master Schummel and yourself."
" You are a noble fellow, Hans ! " cried Peter, yielding at
last. He sprang to his post just as the handkerchief fell to
the ground. The bugle sends forth its blast, loud, clear, and
ringing.
Off go the boys!
" Mein Gott ! " cries a tough old fellow from Delft. " They
beat everything, these Amsterdam youngsters. See them ! "
See them, indeed! They are winged Mercuries, every one of
them. What mad errand are they on? Ah, I know; they are
hunting Peter Van Holp. He is some fleet-footed runaway from
Olympus. Mercury and his troop of winged cousins are in full
chase. They will catch him! Now Carl is the runaway. The
pursuit grows furious. Ben is foremost!
MARY MAPES DODGE
4769
The chase turns in a cloud of mist. It is coming this way.
Who is hunted now ? Mercury himself. It is Peter, Peter Van
Holp! Fly, Peter! Hans is watching you. He is sending all
his fleetness, all his strength, into your feet. Your mother and
sister are pale with eagerness. Hilda is trembling, and dare not
look up, Fly, Peter! The crowd has not gone deranged; it is
only cheering. The pursuers are close upon you. Touch the
white column! It beckons; it is reeling before you — it —
(< Huzza! Huzza! Peter has won the silver skates!*
« PETER VAN HOLP ! }> shouted the crier. But who heard him ?
w Peter Van Holp ! w shouted a hundred voices ; for he was the
favorite boy of the place. (< Huzza! Huzza ! w
Now the music was resolved to be heard. It struck up a
lively air, then a tremendous march. The spectators, thinking
something new was about to happen, deigned to listen and to
look.
The racers formed in single file. Peter, being tallest, stood
first. Gretel, the smallest of all, took her place at the end.
Hans, who had borrowed a strap from the cake-boy, was near
the head.
Three gayly twined arches were placed at intervals upon the
river, facing the Van Gleck pavilion.
Skating slowly, and in perfect time to the music, the boys
and girls moved forward, led on by Peter. It was beautiful to
see the bright procession glide along like a living creature. It
curved and doubled, and drew its graceful length in and out
among the arches; whichever way Peter, the head, went, the
body was sure to follow. Sometimes it steered direct for the
centre arch; then, as if seized with a new impulse, turned away
and curled itself about the first one; then unwound slowly, and
bending low, with quick snake-like curvings, crossed the river,
passing at length through the farthest arch.
When the music was slow, the procession seemed to crawl
like a thing afraid; it grew livelier, and the creature darted for-
ward with a spring, gliding rapidly among the arches, in and
out, curling, twisting, turning, never losing form, until at the
shrill call of the bugle rising above the music it suddenly
resolved itself into boys and girls, standing in double semicircle
before Madame Van Gleck's pavilion.
Peter and Gretel stand in the centre, in advance of the others.
Madame Van Gleck rises majestically. Gretel trembles, but feels
VIII — 299
47 7o MARY MAPES DODGE
that she must look at the beautiful lady. She cannot hear what
is said, there is such a buzzing all around her. She is thinking
that she ought to try and make a courtesy, such as her mother
makes to the meester, when suddenly something so dazzling is
placed in her hand that she gives a cry of joy.
Then she ventures to look about her. Peter too has some-
thing in his hands. (<Oh, oh! how splendid !w she cries; and
(< Oh ! how splendid ! w is echoed as far as people can see.
Meantime the silver skates flash in the sunshine, throwing
dashes of light upon those two happy faces.
w Mevrouw Van Gend sends a little messenger with her
bouquets, — one for Hilda, one for Carl, and others for Peter and
Gretel.»
At sight of the flowers, the Queen of the Skaters becomes
uncontrollable. With a bright stare of gratitude, she gathers
skates and bouquet in her apron, hugs them to her bosom, and
darts off to search for her father and mother in the scattering
crowd.
4771
JOHN DONNE
(1573-1631)
|HE memory of Dr. Donne must not, cannot die, as long as
men speak English, w wrote Izaak Walton, <( whilst his con-
versation made him and others happy. His life ought to
be the example of more than that age in which he died.w
Born in 1573, all the influences of the age in which Donne lived
nourished his large nature and genius. Shakespeare and Marlowe
were nine years older than he; Chapman fourteen; Spenser, Lyly,
and Richard Hooker each twenty; while Sir Philip Sidney counted
one year less. Lodge and Puttenham were
grown men, and Greene and Nash riotous
boys. In the following year Ben Jonson
w came forth to warm our ears, w and soon
after we have his future co-worker Inigo
Jones. It was the time of a multitude of
poets, — Drayton, the Fletchers, Beaumont,
Wither, Herrick, Carew, Suckling, and
others. Imagination was foremost, and was
stimulated by vast discoveries. Debates
upon ecclesiastical reform, led by Wyclif,
Tyndal, Knox, Foxe, Sternhold, Hopkins,
and others, had prepared the way; and the
luminous literatures of Greece and Italy,
but recently brought into England, had
made men's spirits receptive and creative. It was a period of vast
conceptions, when men discovered themselves and the world afresh.
Under such outward conditions Donne was born, in London, (< of
good and virtuous parents, w says Walton, being descended on his
mother's side from no less distinguished a personage than Sir Thomas
More. In 1584, when he was eleven years old, with a good command
both of French and Latin, he passed from the hands of tutors at
home to Hare Hall, a much frequented college at Oxford. Here he
formed a friendship with Henry Wotton, who, after the poet's death,
collected the material from which Walton wrote his tender and sin-
cere (Life of Donne. J
After leaving Oxford he traveled for three years on the Continent,
and on his return in 1572 became a member of Lincoln's Inn, with
intent to study law ; but his law never, says Walton, <( served him
JOHN DONNE
JOHN DONNE
for other use than an ornament and self-satisf action. w While a mem-
ber of Lincoln's Inn he became one of the coterie of the poets of his
youth. To this time are to be referred those of his < Divine Poems *
which show him a sincere Catholic. Stirred by the increasing differ-
ences between the Romanist and the Anglican denominations, Donne
turned toward theological questions, and finally cast his lot with the
new doctrines. His large nature, impetuously reacting from the
asceticism to which he had been bred, turned to excess and overbold-
ness in action, and an occasional coarseness of phrasing in his poems.
The first of his famous < Satires * are dated 1 593, and all were prob-
ably written before 1601. During this time also he squandered his
father's legacy of ^3000. In 1596, when the Earl of Essex defeated the
Spanish navy and pillaged Cadiz, Donne, now one of the first poets
of the time, was among his followers. (<Not long after his return
into England . . . the Lord Ellesmere, the Keeper of the Great
Seal, . . . taking notice of his learning, languages, and other
abilities, and much affecting his person and behavior, took him to be
his chief secretary, supposing and intending it to be an introduction to
some weighty employment in the State; . . . and did always use
him with much courtesy, appointing him a place at his own table.*
Here he met the niece of Lady Ellesmere, — the daughter of Sir
George More, Lord Lieutenant of the Tower, — whom at Christmas,
1600, he married, despite the opposition of her father. Sir George,
transported with wrath, obtained Donne's imprisonment; but the poet
finally regained his liberty and his wife, Sir George in the end forgiv-
ing the young couple. <( Mr. Donne's estate was the greatest part
spent in many chargeable travels, books, and dear-bought experience,
he [being] out of all employment that might yield a support for him-
self and wife.* The depth and intensity of Donne's feeling for this
beautiful and accomplished woman are manifested, says Mr. Norton,
in all the poems known to be addressed to her, such as (The Anni-
versary* and (The Token.*
Of (The Valediction Forbidding Mourning* Walton declares: — (< I
beg leave to tell that I have heard some critics, learned both in lan-
guages and poetry, say that none of the Greek or Latin poets did
ever equal them;* while from Lowell's unpublished lecture on
Poetic Diction* Professor Norton quotes the opinion that <(This poem
is a truly sacred one, and fuller of the soul of poetry than a whole
Alexandrian Library of common love verses.**
During this period of writing for court favors, Donne wrote many
of his sonnets and studied the civil and canon law. After the death
of his patron Sir Francis in 1606, Donne divided his time between
Mitcham, whither he had removed his family, and London, where he
frequented distinguished and fashionable drawing-rooms. At this
JOHN DONNE
4773
time he wrote his admirable epistles in verse, ( The Litany,* and
funeral elegies on Lady Markham and Mistress Bulstrode; but those
poems are merely (< occasional,* as he was not a poet by profession.
At the request of King James he wrote the ( Pseudo-Martyr,' pub-
lished in 1610. In 1611 appeared his funeral elegy <An Anatomy of
the World,' and one year later another of like texture, ( On the Prog-
ress of the Soul,' both poems being exalted and elaborate in thought
and fancy.
The King, desiring Donne to enter into the ministry, denied all
requests for secular preferment, and the unwilling poet deferred his
decision for almost three years. All that time he studied textual
divinity, Greek, and Hebrew. He was ordained about the beginning
of 1615. The King made him his chaplain in ordinary, and promised
other preferments. (<Now," says Walton, (<the English Church had
gained a second St. Austin, for I think none was so like him before
his conversion, none so like St. Ambrose after it; and if his youth
had the infirmities of the one, his age had the excellences of the
other, the learning and holiness of both.''
In 1621 the King made him Dean of St. Paul's, and vicar of St.
Dunstan in the West. By these and other ecclesiastical emoluments
<(he was enabled to become charitable to the poor and kind to his
friends, and to make such provision for his children that they were
not left scandalous, as relating to their or his profession or quality."
His first printed sermons appeared in 1622. The epigrammatic
terseness and unexpected turns of imagination which characterize the
poems, are found also in his discourses. Three years later, during a
dangerous illness, he composed his ( Devotion.' He died on the 3ist
of March, 1631.
<( Donne is full of salient verses, " says Lowell in his ( Shakespeare
Once More,' (<that would take the rudest March winds of criticism
with their beauty; of thoughts that first tease us like charades, and
then delight us with the felicity of their solution." There are few in
which an occasional loftiness is sustained throughout, but this occa-
sional excellence is original, condensed, witty, showing a firm and
strong mind, clear to a degree almost un-English. His poetry has
somewhat of the stability of the Greeks, though it may lack their
sweetness and art. His grossness was the heritage of his time. He
is classed among the "metaphysical poets," of whom Dr. Johnson
wrote: — "They were of very little care to clothe their notions with
elegance of dress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which
are often gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to
adorn their thoughts." It was in obedience to such a dictum, and to
Dryden's suggestion, doubtless, that Pope and Parnell recast and
re-versified the Satires.'
JOHN DONNE
The first edition of Donne's poems appeared two years after his
death. Several editions succeeded during the seventeenth century.
In the more artificial eighteenth century his harsh and abrupt versi-
fication and remote theorems made him difficult to understand. The
best editions are (The Complete Poems of John Donne,* edited by
Dr. Alexander Grosart (1872); and {The Poems of John Donne, * from
the text of the edition of 1633, edited by Charles Eliot Norton (1895),
from whose work the citations in this volume are taken.
THE UNDERTAKING
I HAVE done one braver thing
Than all the Worthies did,
And yet a braver thence doth spring,
Which is, to keep that hid.
It were but madness now t' impart
The skill of specular stone,
When he which can have learned the art
To cut it, can find none.
So, if I now should utter this,
Others (because no more
Such stuff to work upon there is)
Would love but as before:
But he who loveliness within
Hath found, all outward loathes;
For he who color loves, and skin,
Loves but their oldest clothes.
If, as I have, you also do
Virtue attired in women see,
And dare love that and say so too,
And forget the He and She;
And if this love, though placed so,
From profane men you hide,
Which will no faith on this bestow,
Or, if they do, deride;
Then you have done a braver thing
Than all the Worthies did,
And a braver thence will spring,
Which is, to keep that hid.
JOHN DONNE 4775
A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING
A
s VIRTUOUS men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
<( The breath goes now, w and some say (< No
So let us melt and make no noise,
No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less eyes, lips, hands to miss.
Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if the other do,
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
JOHN DONNE
SONG
Go AND catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Then, when thou return'st, wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
Nowhere
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know;
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not: I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true when you met her,
And last till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two or three.
LOVE'S GROWTH
{SCARCE believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude and season as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make it more.
But if this medicine love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence
But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense,
And of the sun his working vigor borrow,
JOHN DONNE 4777
Love's not so pure and abstract as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As in the firmament
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love-deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love's awakened root do bud out now.
If, as in water stirred, more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Thou, like so many spheres, but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in times of action get
New taxes and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate the spring's increase.
SONG
SWEETEST Love, I do not go
For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter Love for me:
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feigned deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way.
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
Oh, how feeble is man's power,
That, if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall!
47 78 JOHN DONNE
But come bad chance,
And we join to it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself o'er us to advance.
When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
My life's blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lov'st me as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste;
Thou art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfill:
But think that we
Are but turned aside to sleep:
They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.
4779
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
(1821-1881)
BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD
^N CERTAIN respects Dostoevsky is the most characteristically
national of Russian writers. Precisely for that reason, his
work does not appeal to so wide a circle outside of his
own country as does the work of Turgenieff and Count L. N. Tolstoy.
This result flows not only from the natural bent of his mind and
temperament, but also from the peculiar vicissitudes of his life as
compared with the comparatively even tenor of their existence, and
the circumstances of the time in which he lived. These circum-
stances, it is true, were felt by the writ-
ers mentioned; but practically they affected
him far more deeply than they did the
others, with their rather one-sided training;
and his fellow-countrymen — especially the
young of both sexes — were not slow to ex-
press their appreciation of the fact. His
special domain was the one which Turgen-
ieff and Tolstoy did not understand, and
have touched not at all, or only incident-
ally,— the great middle class of society, or
what corresponds thereto in Russia.
Through his father, Mikhail Andreevitch
Dostoevsky, Feodor Mikhailovitch belonged
to the class of w nobles, w — that is to say,
to the gentry; through his mother, to the respectable, well-to-do
merchant class, which is still distinct from the other, and was even
more so during the first half of the present century; and in personal
appearance he was a typical member of the peasant class. The
father was resident physician in the Marie Hospital for the Poor in
Moscow, having entered the civil service at the end of the war of
1812, during which he had served as a physician in the army. In
the very contracted apartment which he occupied in the hospital,
Feodor was born — one of a family of seven children, all of whom,
with the exception of the eldest and the youngest, were born there
— on October 3oth (November nth), 1821. The parents were very
upright, well-educated, devoutly religious people; and as Feodor ex-
pressed it many years later to his elder brother, after their father
FEODOR DOSTOEVSKY
go FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
died, <( Do you know, our parents were very superior people, and they
would have been superior even in these days.w The children were
brought up at home as long as possible, and received their instruction
from tutors and their father. Even after the necessity of preparing
the two elder boys for a government institution forced the parents
to send them to a boarding-school during the week, they continued
their strict supervision over their associates, discouraged nearly all
friendships with their comrades, and never allowed them to go into
the street unaccompanied, after the national custom in good families,
even at the age of seventeen or more.
Feodor, according to the account of his brothers and relatives,
was always a quiet, studious lad, and he with his elder brother
Mikhail spent their weekly holidays chiefly in reading, Walter Scott
and James Fenimore Cooper being among their favorite authors;
though Russian writers, especially Pushkin, were not neglected. Dur-
ing many of these years the mother and children passed the sum-
mers on a little estate in the country which the father bought, and
it was there that Feodor Mikhailovitch first made acquaintance with
the beauties of nature, to which he eloquently refers in after life,
and especially with the peasants, their feelings and temper, which
greatly helped him in his psychological studies and in his ability to
endure certain trials which came upon him. There can be no doubt
that his whole training contributed not only to the literary tastes
which the famous author and his brother cherished throughout their
lives, but to the formation of that friendship between them which
was stronger than all others, and to the sincere belief in religion and
the profound piety which permeated the spirit and the books of
Feodor Mikhailovitch.
In 1837 the mother died, and the father took his two eldest sons
to St. Petersburg to enter them in the government School of Engi-
neers. But the healthy Mikhail was pronounced consumptive by
the doctor, while the sickly Feodor was given a certificate of perfect
health. Consequently Mikhail was rejected, and went to the Engi-
neers' School in Revel, while Feodor, always quiet and reserved, was
left lonely in the St. Petersburg school. Here he remained for three
years, studying well, but devoting a great deal of time to his pas-
sionately beloved literary subjects, and developing a precocious and
penetrating critical judgment on such matters. It is even affirmed
that he began or wrote the first draft of his famous book (Poor
People, } by night, during this period; though in another account he
places its composition later. After graduating well as ensign in 1841,
he studied for another year, and became an officer with the rank of
sub-lieutenant, and entered on active service, attached to the draught-
ing department of the Engineers' School, in August 1843.
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY 4781
A little more than a year later he resigned from the service, in
order that he might devote himself wholly to literature. His father
had died in the mean time, and had he possessed any practical
talent he might have lived in comfort on the sums which his
guardian sent him. But throughout his life people seemed to fleece
him at will; he lost large sums at billiards with strangers, and other-
wise; he was generous and careless; in short, he was to the end
nearly always in debt, anxiety, and difficulties. Then came the first
important crisis in his life. He wrote (or re-wrote) (Poor People*;
and said of his state of mind, as he reckoned up the possible pecun-
iary results, that he could not sleep for nights together, and (<If my
undertaking does not succeed, perhaps I shall hang myself. ** The
history of that success is famous and stirring. His only acquaintance
in literary circles was his old comrade D. V. Grigorovitch (also well
known as a writer), and to him he committed the manuscript. His
friend took it to the poet and editor Nekrasoff, in the hope that it
might appear in the ( Collection * which the latter was intending to
publish. Dostoevsky was especially afraid of the noted critic Bye-
linsky's judgment on it: (<He will laugh at my <Poor People,* said
he; <(but I wrote it with passion, almost with tears. **
He spent the evening with a friend, reading with him, as was the
fashion of the time, Gogol's <Dead Souls,* and returned home at four
o'clock in the morning. It was one of the <( white nights** of early
summer, and he sat down by his window. Suddenly the door-bell
rang, and in rushed Grigorovitch and Nekrasoff, who flung them-
selves upon his neck. They had begun to read his story in the
evening, remarking that (<ten pages would suffice to show its qual-
ity. ** But they had gone on reading, relieving each other as their
voices failed them with fatigue and emotion, until the whole was
finished. At the point where Pokrovsky's old father runs after his
coffin, Nekrasoff pounded the table with the manuscript, deeply
affected, and exclaimed, (< Deuce take him!** Then they decide to
hasten to Dostoevsky : <( No matter if he is asleep — we will wake
him up. This is above sleep.**
This sort of glory and success was exactly of that pure, unmixed
sort which Dostoevsky had longed for. When Nekrasoff went to
Byelinsky with the manuscript of 'Poor People,* and announced, (<A
new Gogol ha£ made his appearance !** the critic retorted with sever-
ity, <(Gogols spring up like mushrooms among us.** But when he
had read the story he said, (< Bring him hither, bring him quickly ;**
and welcomed Dostoevsky when he came, with extreme dignity and
reserve, but exclaimed in a moment, ((Do you understand yourself
what sort of a thing this is that you have written?** From that
moment the young author's fame was assured, and he became known
4782
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
and popular even in advance of publication in a wide circle of lit-
erary and other people, as was the fashion of those days in Russia.
When the story appeared, the public rapturously echoed the judg-
ment of the critics.
The close friendship which sprang up between Byelinsky and Dos-
toevsky was destined, however, to exert an extraordinary influence
upon Dostoevsky's career, quite apart from its critical aspect. Bye-
linsky was an atheist and a socialist, and Dostoevsky was brought
into relations with persons who shared those views, although he him-
self never wavered, apparently, in his religious faith, and was never
in harmony with any other aspirations of his associates except that
of freeing the serfs. Notwithstanding this, he became involved in the
catastrophe which overtook many visitors, occasional or constant, of
the <( circles M at whose head stood Petrashevsky. The whole affair is
known as the Conspiracy of Petrashevsky. During the '40*8 the
students at the St. Petersburg University formed small gatherings
where sociological subjects were the objects of study, and read the
works of Stein, Haxthausen, Louis Blanc, Fourier, Proudhon, and
other similar writers. Gradually assemblies of this sort were formed
outside of the University. Petrashevsky, an employee of the Depart-
ment of Foreign Affairs, who had graduated from the Lyceum and
the University, and who was ambitious of winning power and a repu-
tation for eccentricity, learned of these little clubs and encouraged
their growth. He did not however encourage their close association
among themselves, but rather, entire dependence on himself, as the
centre of authority, the guide; and urged them to inaugurate a sort of
propaganda. Dostoevsky himself declared, about thirty years later,
that "the socialists sprang from the followers of Petrashevsky; they
sowed much seed." He has dealt with them and their methods in
his novel < Demons * ; though perhaps not with exact accuracy. But
they helped him to an elucidation of the contemporary situation,
which Turgenieff had treated in ( Virgin Soil.* The chief subject
of their political discussions was the emancipation of the serfs, and
many of Petrashevsky 's followers reckoned upon a rising of the serfs
themselves, though it was proved that Dostoevsky maintained the
propriety and necessity of the reform proceeding from the govern-
ment. This was no new topic; the Emperor Nicholas I. had already
begun to plan the Emancipation, and it is probable 'that it would
have taken place long before it did, had it not been for this very
conspiracy. From the point of view of the government, the move-
ment was naturally dangerous, especially in view of what was taking
place in Europe at that epoch. Dostoevsky bore himself critically
toward the socialistic writings and doctrines, maintaining that in
their own Russian system of workingmen's guilds with reciprocal
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4783
bonds there existed surer and more normal foundations than in all
the dreams of Saint-Simon and all his school. He did not even visit
very frequently the circle to which he particularly belonged, and was
rarely at the house of Petrashevsky, whom many personally disliked.
But on one occasion, as he was a good reader, he was asked to
read aloud Byelinsky's famous letter to Gogol, which was regarded
as a victorious manifest of <( Western * (/. <?., of socialistic) views.
This, technically, was propagating revolution, and was the chief
charge against him when the catastrophe happened, and he, together
with over thirty other ^Petrashevtzi,* was arrested on April 23d
(May 5th), 1849. In the Peter-Paul Fortress prison, where he was
kept for eight months pending trial, Dostoevsky wrote (The Little
Hero, * two or three unimportant works having appeared since <• Poor
People. * At last he, with several others, was condemned to death
and led out for execution. The history of that day, and the analysis
of his sensations and emotions* are to be found in severai of his
books : ( Crime and Punishment, ) ( The Idiot, > ( The Karamazoff Broth-
ers^ At the last moment it was announced to them that the Em-
peror had commuted their sentence to exile in varying degrees, and
they were taken to Siberia. Alexei Pleshtcheeff, then twenty-three
years of age, the man who sent Byelinsky's letter to Dostoevsky, was
banished for a short term of years to the disciplinary brigade in
Orenburg; and when I saw him in St. Petersburg forty years later,
I was able to form a faint idea of what Dostoevsky's popularity must
have been, by the way in which he, — a man of much less talent, origi-
nality, and personal power, — was surrounded, even in church, by
adoring throngs of young people. Dostoevsky's sentence was (<four
years at forced labor in prison; after that, to serve as a common
soldier *; but he did not lose his nobility and his civil rights, being
the first noble to retain them under such circumstances.
The story of what he did and suffered during his imprisonment is
to be found in his ( Notes from the House of the Dead,* where,
under the disguise of a man sentenced to ten years' labor for the
murder of his wife, he gives us a startling, faithful, but in some
respects a consoling picture of life in a Siberian prison. His own
judgment as to his exile was, (< The government only defended itself ; *
and when people said to him, «How unjust your exile was!* he
replied, even with irritation, (( No, it was just. The people them-
selves would have condemned us.* Moreover, he did not like to give
benefit readings in later years from his ( Notes from the House of the
Dead,* lest he might be thought to complain. Besides, this catas-
trophe was the making of him, by his own confession; he had be-
come a confirmed hypochondriac, with a host of imaginary afflictions
and ills, and had this affair not saved him from himself he said that
4784
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
he <( should have gone mad." It seems certain, from the testimony
of his friend and physician, that he was already subject to the epi-
leptic fits which he himself was wont to attribute to his imprison-
ment; and which certainly increased in severity as the years went
on, until they occurred once a month or oftener, in consequence of
overwork and excessive nervous strain. In his novel * The Idiot,'
whose hero is an epileptic, he has made a psychological study of his
sensations before and after such fits, and elsewhere he makes allu-
sions to them.
After serving in the ranks and being promoted officer when he
had finished his term of imprisonment, he returned to Russia in 1859,
and lived first at Tver; afterward, when permitted, in St. Petersburg.
The history of his first marriage — which took place in Siberia, to
the widow of a friend — is told with tolerable accuracy in his ( Humbled
and Insulted.* which also contains a description of his early strug-
gles and the composition of ( Poor •People, * the hero who narrates
the tale of his love and sacrifice being himself. Like that hero, he
tried to facilitate his future wife's marriage to another man. He
was married to his second wife, by whom he had four children, in
1867, and to her he owed much happiness and material comfort. It
will be seen that much is to be learned concerning our author from
his own novels, though it would hardly be safe to write a biography
from them alone. Even in * Crime and Punishment,' his greatest
work in a general way, he reproduces events of his own life, medita-
tions, wonderfully accurate descriptions of the third-rate quarter of
the town in which he lived after his return from Siberia, while en-
gaged on some of his numerous newspaper and magazine enterprises.
This journalistic turn of mind, combined in nearly equal measures
with the literary talent, produced several singular effects. It ren-
dered his periodical ( Diary of a Writer ' the most enormously popu-
lar publication of the day, and a success when previous ventures had
failed, though it consisted entirely of his own views on current topics
of interest, literary questions, and whatever came into his head. On
his novels it had a rather disintegrating effect. Most of them are of
great length, are full of digressions from the point, and there is often
a lack of finish about them which extends not only to the minor
characters but to the style in general. In fact, his style is neither
jewel-like in its brilliancy, as is Turgenieff's, nor has it the elegance,
broken by carelessness, of Tolstoy's. But it was popular, remarkably
well adapted to the class of society which it was his province to
depict, and though diffuse, it is not possible to omit any of the long
psychological analyses, or dreams, or series of ratiocinations, without
injuring the web of the story and the moral, as chain armor is spoiled
by the rupture of a link. This indeed is one of the great difficulties
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4785
which the foreigner encounters in an attempt to study Dostoevsky:
the translators have been daunted by his prolixity, and have often
cut his works down to a mere skeleton of the original. Moreover,
he deals with a sort of Russian society which it is hard for non-
Russians to grasp, and he has no skill whatever in presenting aristo-
cratic people or society, to which foreigners have become accustomed
in the works of his great contemporaries Turgenieff and Tolstoy;
while he never, despite all his genuine admiration for the peasants
and keen sympathy with them, attempts any purely peasant tales
like Turgenieff s < Notes of a Sportsman > or Tolstoy's ( Tales for the
Peopled Naturally, this is but one reason the more why he should
be studied. His types of hero, and of feminine character, are pecul-
iar to himself. Perhaps the best way to arrive at his ideal — and at
his own character, plus a certain irritability and tendency to sus-
picion of which his friends speak — is to scrutinize the pictures of
Prince Myshkin (< The Idiot )), Ivan (( Humbled and Insulted >), and
Alyosha (( The Karamazoff Brothers )). Pure, delicate both physically
and morally, as Dostoevsky himself is described by those who knew
him best; devout, gentle, intensely sympathetic, strongly masculine
yet with a large admixture of the feminine element — such are these
three; such is also, in his way, Raskolnikoff ('Crime and Punishment >).
His feminine characters are the precise counterparts of these in many
respects, but are often also quixotic even to boldness and wrong-
headedness, like Aglaya (<The Idiot >), or to shame, like Sonia (< Crime
and Punishment >), and the heroine of ( Humbled and Insulted.' But
Dostoevsky could not sympathize with and consequently could not
draw an aristocrat; his frequently recurring type of the dissolute
petty noble or rich merchant is frequently brutal; and his unclassed
women, though possibly quite as true to life as these men, are pain-
ful in their callousness and recklessness. His earliest work, ( Poor
People,* written in the form of letters, is worthy of all the praises
which have been bestowed upon it, simple as is the story of the
poverty-stricken clerk who is almost too humble to draw his breath;
who pleads that one must wear a coat and boots which do not show
the bare feet, during the severe Russian winter, merely because pub-
lic opinion forces one thereto; and who shares his rare pence with a
distant but equally needy relative who is in a difficult position. As
a compact, subtle psychological study, his ( Crime and Punishment *
cannot be overrated, repulsive as it is in parts. The poor student
who kills the aged usurer with intent to rob, after prolonged argu-
ment with himself that great geniuses, like Napoleon I. and the like,
are justified in committing any crime, and that he has a right to
relieve his poverty; and who eventually surrenders himself to the
authorities and accepts his exile as moral salvation, — is one of the
vin — 300
4786
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
strongest in Russian literature, though wrong-headed and easily
swayed, like all the author's characters.
In June 1880 Dostoevsky made a speech at the unveiling of
Pushkin's monument in Moscow, which completely overshadowed the
speeches of Turgenieff and Aksakoff, and gave rise to what was
probably the most extraordinary literary ovation ever seen in Russia.
By that time he had become the object of pilgrimages, on the part
of the young especially, to a degree which no other Russian author
has ever experienced, and the recipient of confidences, both personal
and written, which pressed heavily on his time and strength. That
ovation has never been surpassed, save by the astonishing concourse
at his funeral. He died of a lesion of the brain on January 28th
(February 8th), 1881. Thousands followed his coffin for miles, but
there was no "demonstration," as that word is understood in Russia.
Nevertheless it was a demonstration in an unexpected way, since all
classes of society, even those which had not seemed closely interested
or sympathetic, now joined in the tribute of respect, which amounted
to loving enthusiasm.
The works which I have mentioned are the most important,
though he wrote also <The Stripling* and numerous shorter stories.
His own characterization of his work, when reproached with its
occasional lack of continuity and finish, was that his aim was to
make his point, and the exigencies of money and time under which
he labored were to blame for the defects which, with his keen literary
judgment, he perceived quite as clearly as did his critics. If that
point be borne in mind, it will help the reader to appreciate his lit-
erary-journalistic style, and to pardon shortcomings for the sake of
the pearls of principle and psychology which can be fished up from
the profound depths of his voluminous tomes, and of his analysis.
The gospel which Dostoevsky consistently preached, from the begin-
ning of his career to the end, was love, self-sacrifice even to self-
effacement. That was and is the secret of his power, even over
those who did not follow his precepts.
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
FROM <POOR PEOPLE >
LETTER FROM VARVARA DOBROSYELOFF TO MAKAR DYEVUSHKIN
POKROVSKY was a poor, very poor young man; his health did
not permit of his attending regularly to his studies, and so
it was only by way of custom that we called him a student.
He lived modestly, peaceably, quietly, so that we could not even
hear him from our room. He was very queer in appearance;
he walked so awkwardly, bowed so uncouthly, spoke in such a
peculiar manner, that at first I could not look at him without
laughing. Moreover, he was of an irritable character, was con-
stantly getting angry, flew into a rage at the slightest trifle,
shouted at us, complained of us, and often went off to his own
room in a fit of wrath without finishing our lesson. He had a
great many books, all of them expensive, rare books. He gave
lessons somewhere else also, received some remuneration, and
just as soon as he had a little money, he went off and bought
more books.
In time I learned to understand him better. He was the
kindest, the most worthy man, the best man I ever met. My
mother respected him highly. Later on, he became my best
friend — after my mother, of course. . . .
From time to time a little old man made his appearance at
our house — a dirty, badly dressed, small, gray -haired, sluggish,
awkward old fellow; in short, he was peculiar to the last degree.
At first sight one would have thought that he felt ashamed of
something, that his conscience smote him for something. He
writhed and twisted constantly; he had such tricks of manner
and ways of shrugging his shoulders, that one would not have
been far wrong in assuming that he was a little crazy. He
would come and stand close to the glazed door in the vestibule,
and not dare to enter. As soon as one of us, Sasha or I or one
of the servants whom he knew to be kindly disposed toward
him, passed that way, he would begin to wave his hands, and
beckon us to him, and make signs; and only when we nodded to
him or called to him, — the signal agreed upon, that there was no
stranger in the house and that he might enter when he pleased,
— only then would the old man softly open the door, with a joy-
ous smile, rubbing his hands together with delight, and betake
himself to Pokrovsky's room. He was his father.
88 FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
Afterward I learned in detail the story of this poor old man.
Once upon a time he had been in the government service some-
where or other, but he had not the slightest capacity, and his
place in the service was the lowest and most insignificant of all.
When his first wife died (the mother of the student Pokrovsky),
he took it into his head to marry again, and wedded a woman
from the petty-merchant class. Under the rule of this new wife,
everything was at sixes and sevens in his house; there was no
living with her; she drew a tight rein over everybody. Student
Pokrovsky was a boy at that time, ten years of age. His step-
mother hated him. But fate was kind to little Pokrovsky.
Bykoff, a landed proprietor, who was acquainted with Pokrovsky
the father and had formerly been his benefactor, took the child
under his protection and placed him in a school. He took an
interest in him because he had known his dead mother, whom
Anna Feodorovna had befriended while she was still a girl, and
who had married her off to Pokrovsky. From school young
Pokrovsky entered a gymnasium, and then the University, but
his impaired health prevented his continuing his studies there.
Mr. Bykoff introduced him to Anna Feodorovna, recommended
him to her, and in this way young Pokrovsky had been taken
into the house as a boarder, on condition that he should teach
Sasha all that was necessary.
But old Pokrovsky fell into the lowest dissipation through
grief at his wife's harshness, and was almost always in a state of
drunkenness. His wife beat him, drove him into the kitchen to
live, and brought matters to such a point that at last he got
used to being beaten and ill-treated, and made no complaint.
He was still far from being an old man, but his evil habits had
nearly destroyed his mind. The only sign in him of noble
human sentiments was his boundless love for his son. It was
said that young Pokrovsky was as like his dead mother as two
drops of water to each other. The old man could talk of noth-
ing but his son, and came to see him regularly twice a week.
He dared not come more frequently, because young Pokrovsky
could not endure his father's visits. Of all his failings, the first
and greatest, without a doubt, was his lack of respect for his
father. However, the old man certainly was at times the most
intolerable creature in the world. In the first place he was
dreadfully inquisitive; in the second, by his chatter and ques-
tions he interfered with his son's occupations; and lastly, he
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY 4789
sometimes presented himself in a state of intoxication. The son
broke the father, in a degree, of his faults, — of his inquisitive-
ness and his chattering; and ultimately brought about such a
condition of affairs that the latter listened to all he said as to
an oracle, and dared not open his mouth without his permission.
There were no bounds to the old man's admiration of and
delight in his Petinka, as he called his son. When he came to
visit him he almost always wore a rather anxious, timid expres-
sion, probably on account of his uncertainty as to how his son
would receive him, and generally could not make up his mind
for a long time to go in; and if I happened to be present, he
would question me for twenty minutes: How was Petinka?
Was he well ? In what mood was he, and was not he occupied
in something important ? What, precisely, was he doing ? Was
he writing, or engaged in meditation ? When I had sufficiently
encouraged and soothed him, the old man would at last make up
his mind to enter, and would open the door very, very softly,
very, very cautiously, and stick his head in first; and if he saw
that his son was not angry, and nodded to him, he would step
gently into the room, take off his little coat, and his hat, which
was always crumpled, full of holes and with broken rims, and
hang them on a hook, doing everything very softly, and inaudi-
bly. Then he would seat himself cautiously on a chair and
never take his eyes from his son, but would watch his every
movement in his desire to divine the state of his Petinka's
temper. If the son was not exactly in the right mood, and the
old man detected it, he instantly rose from his seat and ex-
plained, (C I only ran in for a minute, Petinka. I have been
walking a good ways, and happened to be passing by, so I came
in to rest myself. }> And then silently he took his poor little
coat and his wretched little hat, opened the door again very
softly, and went away, forcing a smile in order to suppress the
grief which was seething up in his soul, and not betray it to his
son.
But when the son received his father well, the old man was
beside himself with joy. His satisfaction shone forth in his face,
in his gestures, in his movements. If his son addressed a re-
mark to him, the old man always rose a little from his chair, and
replied softly, cringingly, almost reverently, and always made an
effort to employ the most select, that is to say, the most ridicu-
lous expressions. But he had net the gift of language ; he always
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
became confused and frightened, so that he did not know what
to do with his hands, or what to do with his person, and went
on, for a long time afterward, whispering his answer to himself,
as though desirous of recovering his composure. But if he suc-
ceeded in making a good answer, the old man gained courage,
set his waistcoat to rights, and his cravat and his coat, and
assumed an air of personal dignity. Sometimes his courage rose
to such a point, his daring reached such a height, that he rose
gently from his chair, went up to the shelf of books, took down
a book. He did all this with an air of artificial indifference and
coolness, as though he could always handle his son's books in
this proprietary manner, as though his son's caresses were no
rarity to him. But I once happened to witness the old man's
fright when Pokrovsky asked him not to touch his books. He
became confused, hurriedly replaced the book upside down, then
tried to put it right, turned it round and set it wrong side to,
leaves out, smiled, reddened, and did not know how to expiate
his crime.
One day old Pokrovsky came in to see us. He chatted with
us for a long time, was unusually cheerful, alert, talkative; he
laughed and joked after his fashion, and at last revealed the
secret of his raptures, and announced to us that his Petinka's
birthday fell precisely a week later, and that it was his intention
to call upon his son, without fail, on that day; that he would
don a new waistcoat, and that his wife had promised to buy him
some new boots. In short, the old man was perfectly happy,
and chattered about everything that came into his head.
His birthday! That birthday gave me no peace, either day
or night. I made up my mind faithfully to remind Pokrovsky of
my friendship, and to make him a present. But what ? At last
I hit upon the idea of giving him some books. I knew that he
wished to own the complete works of Pushkin, in the latest edi-
tion. I had thirty rubles of my own, earned by my handiwork.
I had put this money aside for a new gown. I immediately
sent old Matryona, our cook, to inquire the price of a complete
set. Alas! The price of the eleven volumes, together with the
expenses of binding, would be sixty rubles at the very least. I
thought and thought, but could not tell what to do. I did not
wish to ask my mother. Of course she would have helped me;
but, in that case' every one in the house would have known
about our gift; moreover, the gift would have been converted
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
into an expression of gratitude, a payment for Pokrovsky's labors
for the whole year. My desire was to make the present pri-
vately, unknown to any one. And for his toilsome lessons to me
I wished to remain forever indebted to him, without any pay-
ment whatever. At last I devised an escape from my predica-
ment. I knew that one could often buy at half price from the
old booksellers in the Gostinny Dvor, if one bargained well, little
used and almost entirely new books. I made up my mind to go
to the Gostinny Dvor myself. So it came about; the very next
morning both Anna Feodorovna and we needed something.
Mamma was not feeling well, and Anna Feodorovna, quite op-
portunely, had a fit of laziness, so all the errands were turned
over to me, and I set out with Matryona.
To my delight I soon found a Pushkin, and in a very hand-
some binding. I began to bargain for it. How I enjoyed it!
But alas! My entire capital consisted of thirty rubles in paper,
and the merchant would not consent to accept less than ten
rubles in silver. At last I began to entreat him, and I begged
and begged, until eventually he yielded. But he only took off
two rubles and a half, and swore that he had done so only for
my sake, because I was such a nice young lady, and that he
would not have come down in his price for any one else. Two
rubles and a half were still lacking! I was ready to cry with
vexation. But the most unexpected circumstance came to my
rescue in my grief. Not far from me, at another stall, I caught
sight of old Pokrovsky. Four or five old booksellers were clus-
tered about him; he had completely lost his wits, and they had
thoroughly bewildered him. Each one was offering him his
wares, and what stuff they were offering, and what all was he
not ready to buy! I stepped up to him and asked him what
he was doing there ? The old man was very glad to see me ;
he loved me unboundedly, — no less than his Petinka, perhaps.
<(Why, I am buying a few little books, Varvara Alexievna," he
replied ; <( I am buying some books for Petinka. }) I asked him if
he had much money? <( See here,* — and the poor old man took
out all his money, which was wrapped up in a dirty scrap of
newspaper; (< here's a half -ruble, and a twenty-kopek piece,
and twenty kopeks in copper coins. w I immediately dragged
him off to my bookseller. (< Here are eleven books, which cost
altogether thirty-two rubles and a half; I have thirty; put your
two rubles and a half with mine, and we will buy all these
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
books and give them to him in partnership.* The old man was
quite beside himself with joy, and the bookseller loaded him
down with our common library.
The next day the old man came to see his son, sat with him
a little while, then came to us and sat down beside me with a
very comical air of mystery. Every moment he grew more sad
and uneasy; at last he could hold out no longer.
<( Listen, Varvara Alexievna," he began timidly, in a low voice:
(< do you know what, Varvara Alexievna ? M The old man was
dreadfully embarrassed. w You see, when his birthday comes, do
you take ten of those little books and give them to him your-
self, that is to say, from yourself, on your own behalf; then I
will take the eleventh and give it from myself, for my share.
So you see, you will have something to give, and I shall have
something to give ; we shall both have something to give. "
I was awfully sorry for the old man. I did not take long to
think it over. The old man watched me anxiously. w Listen to
me, Zakhar Petrovitch," I said: w do you give him all." — "How
all ? Do you mean all the books ? w — M Yes, certainly, all the
books. * — <( And from myself ? " — " From yourself. " — " From
myself alone — that is, in my own name?" — "Yes, in your own
name. " I thought I was expressing myself with sufficient clear-
ness, but the old man could not understand me for a long time.
<(You see," he explained to me at last, w I sometimes indulge
myself, Varvara Alexievna, — that is to say, I wish to state to you
that I nearly always indulge myself, — I do that which is not
right, — that is, you know, when it is cold out of doors, and when
various unpleasant things happen at times, or when I feel sad
for any reason, or something bad happens, — then sometimes, I
do not restrain myself, and I drink too much. This is very
disagreeable to Petrushka, you see, Varvara Alexievna; he gets
angry, and he scolds me and reads me moral lectures. So now
I should like to show him by my gift that I have reformed, and
am beginning to conduct myself well; that I have been saving
up my money to buy a book, saving for a long time, because I
hardly ever have any money, except when it happens that
Petrushka gives me some now and then. He knows that. Con-
sequently, he will see what use I have made of my money, and
he will know that I have done this for his sake alone." . . .
<(Well, yes," he said, after thinking it over, wyes! That will
be very fine, that would be very fine indeed, — only, what are
4793
you going to do, Varvara Alexievna ? J) — <( Why, I shall not give
anything. w — (< What ! }) cried the old man almost in terror ; (< so
you will not give Petinka anything, so you do not wish to give
him anything ? w He was alarmed. At that moment it seemed
as though he were ready to relinquish his own suggestions, so
that I might have something to give his son. He was a kind-
hearted old man! I explained that I would be glad to give
something, only I did not wish to deprive him of the pleasure.
On the festive day he made his appearance at precisely eleven
o'clock, straight from the mass, in his dress coat, decently
patched, and actually in a new waistcoat and new boots. We
were all sitting in the hall with Anna Feodorovna, and drinking
coffee (it was Sunday). The old man began, I believe, by saying
that Pushkin was a good poet; then he lost the thread of his
discourse and got confused, and suddenly jumped to the assertion
that a man must behave well, and that if he does not behave
himself well, then it simply means that he indulges himself; he
even cited several terrible examples of intemperance, and wound
up by stating that for some time past he had been entirely a
reformed character, and that he now behaved with perfect pro-
priety. That even earlier he had recognized the justice of his
son's exhortations, and had treasured them all in his heart, and
had actually begun to be sober. In proof of which he now pre-
sented these books, which had been purchased with money which
he had been hoarding up for a long time.
I could not refrain from tears and laughter, as I listened to
the poor old fellow; he knew well how to lie when the occasion
demanded! The books were taken to Pokrovsky's room and
placed on the shelf. Pokrovsky immediately divined the truth.
Pokrovsky fell ill, two months after the events which I have
described above. During those two months he had striven inces-
santly for the means of existence, for up to that time he had
never had a settled position. Like all consumptives, he bade
farewell only with his last breath to the hope of a very long
life. . . . Anna Feodorovna herself made all the arrange-
ments about the funeral. She bought the very plainest sort of a
coffin, and hired a truckman. In order to repay herself for her
4794 FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOfiVSKY
expenditure, Anna Feodorovna took possession of all the dead
man's books and effects. The old man wrangled with her, raised
an uproar, snatched from her as many books as possible, stuffed
all his pockets with them, thrust them into his hat and wherever
he could, carried them about with him all the three days which
preceded the funeral, and did not even part with them when the
time came to go to the church. During all those days he was
like a man stunned, who has lost his memory, and he kept fuss-
ing about near the coffin with a certain strange anxiety; now he
adjusted the paper band upon the dead man's brow, now he lighted
and snuffed the candles. It was evident that he could not fix
his thoughts in orderly manner on anything. Neither my mother
nor Anna Feodorovna went to the funeral services in the church.
My mother was ill, but Anna Feodorovna quarreled with old
Pokrovsky just as she was all ready to start, and so stayed away.
The old man and I were the only persons present. A sort of
fear came over me during the services — like the presentiment
of something which was about to happen. I could hardly stand
out the ceremony in church. At last they put the lid on the
coffin and nailed it down, placed it on the cart and drove away.
I accompanied it only to the end of the street. The truckman
drove at a trot. The old man ran after the cart, weeping aloud;
the sound of his crying was broken and shaken by his running.
The poor man lost his hat and did not stop to pick it up. His
head was wet with the rain; the sleet lashed and cut his face.
The old man did not appear to feel the bad weather, but ran
weeping from one side of the cart to the other. The skirts of
his shabby old coat waved in the wind like wings. Books pro-
truded from every one of his pockets; in his hands was a huge
book, which he held tightly clutched. The passers-by removed
their hats and made the sign of the cross. Some halted and
stared in amazement at the poor old man. Every moment the
books kept falling out of his pockets into the mud. People
stopped him, and pointed out his losses to him; he picked them
up, and set out again in pursuit of the coffin. At the corner of
the street an old beggar woman joined herself to him to escort
the coffin. At last the cart turned the corner, and disappeared
from my eyes. I went home. I flung myself, in dreadful grief,
on my mother's bosom.
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4795
LETTER FROM MAKAR DYEVUSHKIN TO VARVARA ALEXIEVNA DOBROS-
YELOFF
SEPTEMBER pTH.
My dear Varvara Alexievna!
I am quite beside myself as I write this. I am utterly upset
by a most terrible occurrence. My head is whirling. I feel as
though everything were turning in dizzy circles round about me.
Ah, my dearest, what a thing I have to tell you now! We had
not even a presentiment of such a thing. No, I don't believe
that I did not have a presentiment — I foresaw it all. My heart
forewarned me of this whole thing! I even dreamed of some-
thing like it not long ago.
This is what has happened! I will relate it to you without
attempting fine style, and as the Lord shall put it into my soul.
I went to the office to-day. When I arrived, I sat down and
began to write. But you must know, my dear, that I wrote yes-
terday also. Well, yesterday Timofei Ivan'itch came to me, and
was pleased to give me a personal 'order. (< Here's a document
that is much needed, w says he, (<and we're in a hurry for it.
Copy it, Makar Alexievitch," says he, <( as quickly and as neatly
and carefully as possible: it must be handed in for signature to-
day. w I must explain to you, my angel, that I was not quite
myself yesterday, and didn't wish to look at anything; such sad-
ness and depression had fallen upon me ! My heart was cold, my
mind was dark; you filled all my memory, and incessantly, my
poor darling. Well, so I set to work on the copy; I wrote clearly
and well, only, — I don't know exactly how to describe it to you,
whether the Evil One himself tangled me up, or whether it was
decreed by some mysterious fate, or simply whether it was bound
to happen so, but I omitted a whole line, and the sense was utterly
ruined. The Lord only knows what sense there was — simply
none whatever. They were late with the papers yesterday, so
they only gave this document to his Excellency for signature this
morning. To-day I presented myself at the usual hour, as though
nothing at all were the matter, and set myself down alongside
Emelyan Ivanovitch.
I must tell you, my dear, that lately I have become twice as
shamefaced as before, and more mortified. Of late I have ceased
to look at any one. As soon as any one's chair squeaks, I am
more dead than alive. So to-day I crept in, slipped humbly into
6 FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOfiVSKY
my seat, and sat there all doubled up, so that Efim Akimovitch
(he's the greatest tease in the world) remarked in such a way
that all could hear him, « Why do you sit so like a y-y-y, Makar
Alexievitch ? » Then he made such a grimace that everybody
round him and me split with laughter, and of course at my
expense. They kept it up interminably ! I drooped my ears and
screwed up my eyes, and sat there motionless. That's my way;
they stop the quicker. All at once I heard a noise, a running
and a tumult ; I heard — did my ears deceive me ? They were
calling for me, demanding me, summoning Dyevushkin. My
heart quivered in my breast, and I didn't know myself what I
feared, for nothing of the sort had ever happened to me in the
whole course of my life. I was rooted to my chair, — as though
nothing had occurred, as though it were not I. But then they be-
gan again, nearer at hand, and nearer still. And here they were,
right in my very ear: "Dyevushkin! Dyevushkin!" they called;
w where's Dyevushkin ? * I raise my eyes, and there before me
stands Evstafiy Ivanovitch; he says: — * Makar Alexievitch, hasten
to his Excellency as quickly as possible! You've made a nice
mess with that document!"
That was all he said, but it was enough, wasn't it, my dear,
— quite enough to say ? I turned livid, and grew as cold as
ice, and lost my senses; I started, and I simply didn't know
whether I was alive or dead as I went. They led me through
one room, and through another room, and through a third room,
to the private office, and I presented myself! Positively, I can-
not give you any account of what I was thinking about. I saw
his Excellency standing there, with all of them around him. It
appears that I did not make my salute; I forgot it completely.
I was so scared that my lips trembled and my legs shook. And
there was sufficient cause, my dear. In the first place, I was
ashamed of myself; I glanced to the right, at a mirror, and what
I beheld therein was enough to drive any man out of his sen
And in the second place, I have always behaved as though there
were no place for me in the world. So that it is not likely that
his Excellency was even aware of my existence. It is possible
that he may have heard it cursorily mentioned that there was a
person named Dyevushkin in the department, but he had never
come into any closer relations.
He began angrily, <( What's the meaning of this, sir? What
are you staring at ? Here's an important paper, needed in haste,
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4797
and you go and spoil it. And how did you come to permit such
a thing ?" Here his Excellency turned on Evstafiy Ivanovitch.
I only listen, and the sounds of the words reach me : <( It's gross
carelessness. Heedlessness! You'll get yourself into trouble !w
I tried to open my mouth for some purpose or other. I seemed
to want to ask forgiveness, but I couldn't; to run away, but I
didn't dare to make the attempt: and then — then, my dearest,
something so dreadful happened that I can hardly hold my pen
even now for the shame of it. My button — deuce take it — my
button, which was hanging by a thread, suddenly broke loose,
jumped off, skipped along (evidently I had struck it by accident),
clattered and rolled away, the cursed thing, straight to his Excel-
lency's feet, and that in the midst of universal silence. And
that was the whole of my justification, all my excuse, all my
answer, everything which I was preparing to say to his Excel-
lency !
The results were terrible! His Excellency immediately di-
rected his attention to my figure and my costume. I remembered
what I had seen in the mirror; I flew to catch the button! A
fit of madness descended upon me! I bent down and tried to
grasp the button, but it rolled and twisted, and I couldn't get
hold of it, in short, and I also distinguished myself in the matter
of dexterity. Then I felt my last strength fail me, and knew
that all, all was lost! My whole reputation was lost, the whole
man ruined! And then, without rhyme or reason, Teresa and
Faldoni began to ring in both my ears. At last I succeeded in
seizing the button, rose upright, drew myself up in proper salute,
but like a fool, and stood calmly there with my hands lined
down on the seams of my trousers! No, I didn't, though. I
began to try to fit the button on the broken thread, just as
though it would stick fast by that means ; and moreover, I began
to smile and went on smiling.
At first his Excellency turned away; then he scrutinized me
again, and I heard him say to Evstafiy Ivanovitch : — " How's this ?
See what a condition he is in! What a looking man! What's
the matter with him?" Ah, my own dearest, think of that —
"What a looking man!" and "What's the matter with him!" —
(< He has distinguished himself ! " I heard Evstafiy say ; (< he has
no bad marks, no bad marks on any score, and his conduct
is exemplary; his salary is adequate, in accordance with the
rates." "Well then, give him some sort of assistance," says his
_ g FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH
Excellency; (< make him an advance on his salary. "— " But he has
had it, he has taken it already, for ever so long in advance.
Probably circumstances have compelled him to do so; but his
conduct is good, and he has received no reprimands, he has never
been rebuked." My dear little angel, I turned hot and burned
as though in the fires of the bad place! I was on the point of
fainting. "Well," says his Excellency in a loud voice, " the doc-
ument must be copied again as quickly as possible; come here,
Dyevushkin, make a fresh copy without errors; and listen to
me ; " here his Excellency turned to the others and gave them
divers orders, and sent them all away. As soon as they were
all gone, his Excellency hastily took out his pocket-book, and
from it drew a hundred-ruble bank-note. "Here,0 said he, "this
is all I can afford, and I am happy to help to that extent;
reckon it as you please, take it," — and he thrust it into my hand.
I trembled, my angel, my whole soul was in a flutter; I didn't
know what was the matter with me; I tried to catch his hand
and kiss it. But he turned very red in the face, my darling,
and — I am not deviating from the truth by so much as a hair's-
breadth — he took my unworthy hand, and shook it, indeed he
did; he took it and shook it as though it were of equal rank
with his own, as though it belonged to a General like himself.
"Go," says he; "I am glad to do what I can. Make no mis-
takes, but now do it as well as you can."
Now, my dear, this is what I have decided: I beg you and
Feodor — and if I had children I would lay my commands upon
them — to pray to God for him; though they should not pray for
their own father, that they should pray daily and forever, for his
Excellency! One thing more I will say, my dearest, and I say
it solemnly, — heed me well, my dear, — I swear that, no matter
in what degree I may be reduced to spiritual anguish in the
cruel days of our adversity, as I look on you and your poverty,
on myself, on my humiliation and incapacity, — in spite of all
this, I swear to you that the hundred rubles are not so precious
to me as the fact that his Excellency himself deigned to press
my unworthy hand, the hand of a straw, a drunkard! Thereby
he restored my self-respect. By that deed he brought to life
again my spirit, he made my existence sweeter forevermore, and
I am firmly convinced that, however sinful I may be in the
sight of the Almighty, yet my prayer for the happiness and
prosperity of his Excellency will reach his throne!
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY 4799
My dearest, I am at present in the most terrible state of
spiritual prostration, in a horribly overwrought condition. My
heart beats as though it would burst out of my breast, and I
seem to be weak all over. I send you forty-five rubles, paper
money. I shall give twenty rubles to my landlady, and keep
thirty-five for myself; with twenty I will get proper clothes, and
the other fifteen will go for my living expenses. But just now
all the impressions of this morning have shaken my whole being
to the foundations. I am going to lie down for a bit. Never-
theless, I am calm, perfectly calm. Only, my soul aches, and
down there, in the depths, my soul is trembling and throbbing
and quivering. I shall go to see you; but just now I am simply
intoxicated with all these emotions. God sees all, my dearest,
my own darling, my precious one.
Your worthy friend,
MAKAR DYEVUSHKIN.
Translation of Isabel F. Hapgood.
THE BIBLE READING
From ( Crime and Punishment >
RASKOLNIKOFF went straight to the water-side, where Sonia was
living. The three-storied house was an old building, painted
green. The young man had some difficulty in finding the
dvornik, and got from him vague information about the quarters
of the tailor Kapernasumoff. After having discovered in a corner
of the yard the foot of a steep and gloomy staircase, he ascended
to the second floor, and followed the gallery facing the court-yard.
Whilst groping in the dark, and asking himself how Kapernas-
umoff's lodgings could be reached, a door opened close to him;
he seized it mechanically.
<(Who is there?8 asked a timid female voice.
(< It is I. I am coming to see you," replied Raskolnikoff, on
entering a small ante-room. There on a wretched table stood a
candle, fixed in a candlestick of twisted metal.
<( Is that you ? Good heavens ! }> feebly replied Sonia, who
seemed not to have strength enough to move from the spot.
(< Where do you live ? Is it here ? w And Raskolnikoff passed
quickly into the room, trying not to look the girl in the face.
4g00 FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
A moment afterwards Sonia rejoined him with the candle, and
remained stock still before him, a prey to an indescribable agita-
tion. This unexpected visit had upset her — nay, even frightened
her. All of a sudden her pale face colored up, and tears came
into her eyes. She experienced extreme confusion, united with a
certain gentle feeling. Raskolnikoff turned aside with a rapid
movement and sat down on a chair, close to the table. In the
twinkling of an eye he took stock of everything in the room.
This room was large, with a very low ceiling, and was the
only one let out by the Kapernasumoffs; in the wall, on the left-
hand side, was a door giving access to theirs. On the opposite
side, in the wall on the right, there was another door, which was
always locked. That was another lodging, having another num-
ber. Sonia's room was more like an out-house, of irregular rec-
tangular shape, which gave it an uncommon character. The wall,
with its three windows facing the canal, cut it obliquely, forming
thus an extremely acute angle, in the back portion of which noth-
ing could be seen, considering the feeble light of the candle.
On the other hand, the other angle was an extremely obtuse one.
This large room contained scarcely any furniture. In the right-
hand corner was the bed; between the bed and the door, a chair;
on the same side, facing the door of the next set, stood a deal
table, covered with a blue cloth; close to the table were two rush
chairs. Against the opposite wall, near . the acute angle, was
placed a small chest of drawers of unvarnished wood, which
seemed out of place in this vacant spot. This was the whole of
the furniture. The yellowish and worn paper had everywhere
assumed a darkish color, probably the effect of the damp and
coal smoke. Everything in the place denoted poverty. Even the
bed had no curtains. Sonia silently considered the visitor, who
examined her room so attentively and so unceremoniously.
"Her lot is fixed," thought he, — w a watery grave, the mad-
house, or a brutish existence ! '* This latter contingency was
especially repellent to him, but skeptic as he was, he could not
help believing it a possibility. * Is it possible that such is really
the case ? w he asked himself. (< Is it possible that this creature,
who still retains a pure mind, should end by becoming deliber-
ately mire-like ? Has she not already become familiar with it,
and if up to the present she has been able to bear with such a
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4801
life, has it not been so because vice "has already lost its hideous-
ness in her eyes ? Impossible again ! w cried he, on his part, in
the same way as Sonia had cried a moment ago. (< No, that
which up to the present has prevented her from throwing her-
self into the canal has been the fear of sin and its punishment.
May she not be mad after all ? Who says she is not so ? Is
she in full possession of all her faculties ? Is it possible to
speak as she does ? Do people of sound judgment reason as she
reasons ? Can people anticipate future destruction with such tran-
quillity, turning a deaf ear to warnings and forebodings ? Does
she expect a miracle ? It must be so. And does not all this
seem like signs of mental derangement ? w
To this idea he clung obstinately. Sonia mad! Such a pros-
pect displeased him less than the other ones. Once more he
examined the girl attentively. (< And you — you often pray to
God, Sonia ? }> he asked her.
No answer. Standing by her side, he waited for a reply.
tt What could I be, what should I be without God ? w cried she in
a low-toned but energetic voice, and whilst casting on Raskolni-
koff a rapid glance of her brilliant eyes, she gripped his hand.
"Come, I was not mistaken !}> he muttered to himself. — (<And
what does God do for you ? }> asked he, anxious to clear his
doubts yet more.
For a long time the girl remained silent, as if incapable of
reply. Emotion made her bosom heave. (< Stay ! Do not ques-
tion me! You have no such right!* exclaimed she, all of a sud-
den, with looks of anger.
<( I expected as much ! M was the man's thought.
(< God does everything for me ! }> murmured the girl rapidly,
and her eyes sank.
(< At last I have the explanation ! w he finished mentally, whilst
eagerly looking at her.
He experienced a new, strange, almost unhealthy feeling on
watching this pale, thin, hard-featured face, these blue and soft
eyes which could yet dart such lights and give utterance to such
passion; in a word, this feeble frame, yet trembling with indig-
nation and anger, struck him as weird, — nay, almost fantastic.
<( Mad ! she must be mad ! w he muttered once more. A book
was lying on the chest of drawers. Raskolnikoff had noticed it
more than once whilst moving about the room. He took it and
examined it. It was a Russian translation of the Gospels, a
well-thumbed leather-bound book,
viu — 301
4g02 FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
<( Where does that come from ? w asked he of Sonia, from the
other end of the room.
The girl still held the same position, a pace or two from the
table. "It was lent me," replied Sonia, somewhat loth, without
looking at Raskolnikoff.
« Who lent it you ? "
« Elizabeth — I asked her to ! "
" Elizabeth. How strange ! " he thought. Everything with
Sonia assumed to his mind an increasingly extraordinary aspect.
He took the book to the light, and turned it over. "Where is
mention made of Lazarus ? " asked he abruptly.
Sonia, looking hard on the ground, preserved silence, whilst
moving somewhat from the table.
<( Where is mention made of the resurrection of Lazarus ?
Find me the passage, Sonia.0
The latter looked askance at her interlocutor. "That is not
the place — it is the Fourth Gospel," said she dryly, without
moving from the spot.
" Find me the passage and read it out ! * he repeated, and
sitting down again rested his elbow on the table, his head on
his hand, and glancing sideways with gloomy look, prepared to
listen.
Sonia at first hesitated to draw nearer to the table. The
singular wish uttered by Raskolnikoff scarcely seemed sincere.
Nevertheless she took the book. " Have you ever read the pas-
sage ? * she asked him, looking at him from out the corners of
her eyes. Her voice was getting harder and harder.
" Once upon a time. In my childhood. Read ! "
" Have you never heard it in church ? "
<( I — I never go there. Do you go often yourself ? "
"No," stammered Sonia.
Raskolnikoff smiled. <c I understand, then, you won't go to-
morrow to your father's funeral service ? *
" Oh, yes ! I was at church last week. I was present at a
requiem mass."
"Whose was that?"
"Elizabeth's. She was assassinated by means of an axe."
Raskolnikoff's nervous system became more and more irritated.
He was getting giddy. "Were you friends with her?"
"Yes. She was straightforward. She used to come and see
me — but not often. She was not able. We used to read and
chat. She sees God."
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4803
Raskolnikoff became thoughtful. <( What, B asked he himself,
<( could be the meaning- of the mysterious interviews of two such
idiots as Sonia and Elizabeth ? Why, I should go mad here
myself ! w thought he. (< Madness seems to be in the atmosphere
of the place ! — Read ! M he cried all of a sudden, irritably.
Sonia kept hesitating. Her heart beat loud. She seemed
afraid to read. He considered (< this poor demented creature "
with an almost sad expression. <( How can that interest you,
since you do not believe ? w she muttered in a choking voice.
<( Read ! I insist upon it ! Used you not to read to Eliza-
beth ? »
Sonia opened the book and looked for the passage. Her hands
trembled. The words stuck in her throat. Twice did she try to
read without being able to utter the first syllable.
(< Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus, of Bethany, w
she read, at last, with an effort; but suddenly, at the third word,
her voice grew wheezy, and gave way like an overstretched
chord. Breath was deficient in her oppressed bosom. Raskolni-
koff partly explained to himself Sonia's hesitation to obey him;
and in proportion as he understood her better, he insisted still
more imperiously on her reading. He felt what it must cost the
girl to lay bare to him, to some extent, her heart of hearts. She
evidently could not, without difficulty, make up her mind to con-
fide to a stranger the sentiments which probably since her teens
had been her support, her viaticum — when, what with a sottish
father and a stepmother demented by misfortune, to say nothing
of starving children, she heard nothing but reproach and offens-
ive clamor. He saw all this, but he likewise saw that notwith-
standing this repugnance, she was most anxious to read, — to read
to him, and that now, — let the consequences be what they may!
The girl's look, the agitation to which she was a prey, told him
as much, and by a violent effort over herself Sonia conquered
the spasm which parched her throat, and continued to read the
eleventh chapter of the Gospel according to St. John. She thus
reached the nineteenth verse: —
(< And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary, to comfort
them concerning their brother. Then Martha, as soon as she heard
that Jesus was coming, went and met him ; but Mary sat still in the
house. Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here,
my brother had not died. But I know that even now, whatsoever
thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee."
4g04 FEODOR MIKHAILOV1TCH DOSTOEVSKY
Here she paused, to overcome the emotion which once more
caused her voice to tremble.
tt Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith
unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the
last day. Jesus said unto her, I am the Resurrection and the Life;
he that believeth in me. though he were dead, yet shall he live;
and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest
thou this? She saith unto him,w —
and although she had difficulty in breathing, Sonia raised her
voice, as if in reading the words of Martha she was making her
own confession of faith: —
(<Yea, Lord: I believe that thou art the Christ, the Son of God,
which should come into the world.*
She stopped, raised her eyes rapidly on him, but cast them
down on her book, and continued to read. Raskolnikoff listened
without stirring, without turning toward her, his elbows resting
on the table, looking aside. Thus the reading continued till the
thirty-second verse.
" Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she
fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here,
my brother had not died. When Jesus therefore saw her weeping,
and the Jews also weeping which came with her. he groaned in the
spirit and was troubled, and said, Where have ye laid him ? They
said unto him, Lord, come and see. Jesus wept. Then said the
Jews, Behold how he loved him. And some of them said, Could not
this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even
this man should not have died?"
Raskolnikoff turned towards her and looked at her with agita-
tion. His suspicion was a correct one. She was trembling in all
her limbs, a prey to fever. He had expected this. She was get-
ting to the miraculous story, and a feeling of triumph was taking
possession of her. Her voice, strengthened by joy, had a metal-
lic ring. The lines became misty to her troubled eyes, but for-
tunately she knew the passage by heart. At the last line,
(< Could not this man, which opened the eyes of the blind — "
she lowered her voice, emphasizing passionately the doubt, the
blame, the reproach of these unbelieving and blind Jews, who a
moment after fell as if struck by lightning on their knees, to
sob and to believe. w Yes, w thought she, deeply affected by this
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4805
joyful hope, (<yes, he — he who is blind, who dares not believe —
he also will hear — will believe in an instant, immediately, now,
this very moment! }>
(( Jesus therefore, again groaning in himself, cometh to the grave.
It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, Take ye away
the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him,
Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.*
She strongly emphasized the word four.
w Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee, that if thou wouldst
believe, thou shouldst see the glory of God ? Then they took away
the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted
up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me.
And I knew that thou hearest me always; but because of the people
which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent
me. And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice,
Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth, » —
(on reading these words Sonia shuddered, as if she herself had
been witness to the miracle)
"bound hand and foot with grave-clothes; and his face was bound
about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him
go. Then many of the Jews which came to Mary, and had seen the
things which Jesus did, believed on him?
She read no more, — such a thing would have been impossible
to her, — closed the book, and briskly rising, said in a low-toned
and choking voice, without turning toward the man she was
talking to, (( So much for the resurrection of Lazarus. » She
seemed afraid to raise her eyes on Raskolnikoff, whilst her fever-
ish trembling continued. The dying piece of candle dimly lit up
this low-ceiled room, in which an assassin and a harlot had just
read the Book of books.
4806
EDWARD DOWDEN
(1843-)
IE ARE all hunters, skillful or skilless, in literature — hunters
for our spiritual good or for our pleasure," says Edward Dow-
den; and to his earnest research and careful exposition
many readers owe a more thorough appreciation of literature. He
was educated at Queen's College, Cork (his birthplace), and then at
Trinity College, Dublin, where he received the Vice-Chancellor's
prize in both English verse and English prose, and also the first
English Moderatorship in logic and ethics. For two years he studied
divinity. Then he obtained by examination a professorship of oratory
at the University of Dublin, where he was afterwards elected pro-
fessor of English literature. The scholarship of his literary work has
won him many honors. In 1888 he was chosen president of the Eng-
lish Goethe Society, to succeed Professor Muller. The following year
he was appointed first Taylorian lecturer in the Taylor Institute,
Oxford. The Royal Irish Academy has bestowed the Cunningham
gold medal upon him, and he has also received the honorary degree
LL. D. of the University of Edinburgh, and from Princeton Uni-
versity.
Very early in life Professor Dowden began to express his feeling
for literature, and the instinct which leads him to account for a work
by study of its author's personality. For more than twenty years
English readers have known him as a frequent contributor of critical
essays to the leading reviews. These have been collected into the
delightful volumes * Studies in Literature ' and ' Transcripts and
Studies. * His has been called w an honest method, wholesome as
sweet. w He would offer more than a mere resume of what his author
expresses. He would be one of the interpreters and transmitters of
new forms of thought to the masses of readers who lack time or
ability to discover values for themselves. Very widely read himself,
he is fitted for just comparisons and comprehensive views. As has
been pointed out, he is fond of working from a general consideration
of a period with its formative influences, to the particular care of the
author with whom he is dealing. Saintsbury tells us that Mr. Dow-
den's procedure is to ask his author a series of questions which seem
to him of vital importance, and find out how he would answer them.
Dowden's style is careful, clear, and thorough, showing his schol-
arship and incisive thought. His form of expression is strongly
EDWARD DOWDEN
4807
picturesque. It is nowhere more so than in ( Shakespeare : a Study
of His Mind and Art.* This, his most noteworthy work, has been
very widely read and admired. His intimate acquaintance with Ger-
man criticism upon the great Elizabethan especially fitted him to
present fresh considerations to the public.
He has also written a brilliant ( Life of Shelley > (bitterly criticized
by Mark Twain in the North American Review, (A Defense of Har-
riet Shelley'), and a ( Life of Southey > in the English Men of
Letters Series ; and edited most capably ( Southey's Correspondence
with Caroline Bowles, > ( The Correspondence of Sir Henry Taylor,'
( Shakespeare's Sonnets,' ( The Passionate Pilgrim, ' and a collection
of ( Lyrical Ballads. *
THE HUMOR OF SHAKESPEARE
From < Shakespeare : a Critical Study of His Mind and Art >
A STUDY of Shakespeare which fails to take account of Shake-
speare's humor must remain essentially incomplete. The
character and spiritual history of a man who is endowed
with a capacity for humorous appreciation of the world must dif-
fer throughout, and in every particular, from that of the man
whose moral nature has never rippled over with genial laughter.
At whatever final issue Shakespeare arrived after long spiritual
travail as to the attainment of his life, that precise issue, rather
than another, was arrived at in part by virtue of the fact of
Shakespeare's humor. In the composition of forces which deter-
mined the orbit traversed by the mind of the poet, this must be
allowed for as a force among others, in importance not the least,
and efficient at all times even when little apparent. A man
whose visage "holds one stern intent w from day to day, and
whose joy becomes at times almost a supernatural rapture, may
descend through circles of hell to the narrowest and the lowest;
he may mount from sphere to sphere of Paradise until he stands
within the light of the Divine Majesty; but he will hardly suc-
ceed in presenting us with an adequate image of life as it is on
this earth of ours, in its oceanic amplitude and variety. A
few men of genius there have been, who with vision penetrative
as lightning have gazed as it were through life, at some eter-
nal significances of which life is the symbol. Intent upon its
sacred meaning, they have had no eye to note the forms of the
4808
EDWARD DOWDEN
grotesque hieroglyph of human existence. Such men are not
framed for laughter. To this little group the creator of Falstaff,
of Bottom, and of Touchstone does not belong.
Shakespeare, who saw life more widely and wisely than any
other of the seers, could laugh. That is a comfortable fact to
bear in mind; a fact which serves to rescue us from the domina-
tion of intense and narrow natures, who claim authority by vir-
tue of their grasp of one-half of the realities of our existence
and their denial of the rest. Shakespeare could laugh. But we
must go on to ask, "What did he laugh at? and what was the
manner of his laughter ? w There are as many modes of laugh-
ter as there are facets of the common soul of humanity, to reflect
the humorous appearances of the world. Hogarth, in one of his
pieces of coarse yet subtile engraving, has presented a group of
occupants of the pit of a theatre, sketched during the perform-
ance of some broad comedy or farce. What proceeds upon the
stage is invisible and undiscoverable, save as we catch its reflec-
tion on the faces of the spectators, in the same way that we infer
a sunset from the evening flame upon windows that front the
west. Each laughing face in Hogarth's print exhibits a different
mode or a different stage of the risible paroxysm. There is the
habitual enjoyer of the broad comic, abandoned to his mirth,
which is open and unashamed; mirth which he is evidently a
match for, and able to sustain. By his side is a companion
female portrait — a woman with head thrown back to ease the
violence of the guffaw; all her loose redundant flesh is tickled
into an orgasm of merriment; she is fairly overcome. On the
other side sits the spectator who has passed the climax of his
laughter; he wipes the tears from his eyes, and is on the way to
regain an insecure and temporary composure. Below appears a
girl of eighteen or twenty, whose vacancy of intellect is captured
and occupied by the innocuous folly still in progress; she gazes
on expectantly, assured that a new blossom of the wonder of
absurdity is about to display itself. Her father, a man who does
not often surrender himself to an indecent convulsion, leans
his face upon his hand, and with the other steadies himself by
grasping one of the iron spikes that inclose the orchestra. In
the right corner sits the humorist, whose eyes, around which the
wrinkles gather, are half closed, while he already goes over the
jest a second time in his imagination. At the opposite side an
elderly woman is seen, past the period when animal violences are
EDWARD DOWDEN
4809
possible, laughing because she knows there is something to
laugh at, though she is too dull-witted to know precisely what.
One spectator, as we guess from his introverted air, is laughing
to think what somebody else would think of this. Finally, the
thin-lipped, perk -nosed person of refinement looks aside, and by
his critical indifference condemns the broad, injudicious mirth of
the company.
All these laughers of Hogarth are very commonplace, and
some are very vulgar persons; one trivial, ludicrous spectacle is
the occasion of their mirth. When from such laughter as this
we turn to the laughter of men of genius, who gaze at the total
play of the world's life; and when we listen to this, as with the
ages it goes on gathering and swelling, our sense of hearing is
enveloped and almost annihilated by the chorus of mock and
jest, of antic and buffoonery, of tender mirth and indignant
satire, of monstrous burlesque and sly absurdity, of desperate
misanthropic derision and genial affectionate caressing of human
imperfection and human folly. We hear from behind the mask
the enormous laughter of Aristophanes, ascending peal above
peal until it passes into jubilant ecstasy, or from the uproar
springs some exquisite lyric strain. We hear laughter of pas-
sionate indignation from Juvenal, the indignation of (< the ancient
and free soul of the dead republics. w And there is Rabelais,
with his huge buffoonery, and the earnest eyes intent on free-
dom, which look out at us in the midst of the zany's tumblings
and indecencies. And Cervantes, with his refined Castilian air
and deep melancholy mirth, at odds with the enthusiasm which
is dearest to his soul. And Moliere, with his laughter of unerring
good sense, undeluded by fashion or vanity or folly or hypocrisy,
and brightly mocking these into modesty. And Milton, with his
fierce objurgatory laughter, — Elijah-like insult against the ene-
mies of freedom and of England. And Voltaire, with his quick
intellectual scorn and eager malice of the brain. And there is
the urbane and amiable play of Addison's invention, not capable
of large achievement, but stirring the corners of the mouth with
a, humane smile, — gracious gayety for the breakfast- tables of
England. And Fielding's careless mastery of the whole broad
common field of mirth. And Sterne's exquisite curiosity of odd-
ness, his subtile extravagances and humors prepense. And there
is the tragic laughter of Swift, which announces the extinction
of reason, and loss beyond recovery of human faith and charity
glo EDWARD DOWDEN
and hope. How in this chorus of laughters, joyous and terrible,
is the laughter of Shakespeare distinguishable ?
In the first place, the humor of Shakespeare, like his total
genius, is many-sided. He does not pledge himself as dramatist
to any one view of human life. If we open a novel by Charles
Dickens, we feel assured beforehand that we are condemned to
an exuberance of philanthropy; we know how the writer will
insist that we must all be good friends, all be men and brothers,
intoxicated with the delight of one another's presence; we expect
him to hold out the right hand of fellowship to man, woman, and
child; we are prepared for the bacchanalia of benevolence. The
lesson we have to learn from this teacher is, that with the
exception of a few inevitable and incredible monsters of cruelty,
every man naturally engendered of the offspring of Adam is of
his own nature inclined to every amiable virtue. Shakespeare
abounds in kindly mirth: he receives an exquisite pleasure from
the alert wit and bright good sense of a Rosalind; he can dandle
a fool as tenderly as any nurse qualified to take a baby from the
birth can deal with her charge. But Shakespeare is not pledged
to deep-dyed ultra-amiability. With Jacques, he can rail at the
world while remaining curiously aloof from all deep concern
about its interests, this way or that. With Timon he can turn
upon the world with a rage no less than that of Swift, and dis-
cover in man and woman a creature as abominable as the Yahoo.
In other words, the humor of Shakespeare, like his total genius,
is dramatic.
Then again, although Shakespeare laughs incomparably, mere
laughter wearies him. The only play of Shakespeare's, out of
nearly forty, which is farcical, — (The Comedy of Errors,* — was
written in the poet's earliest period of authorship, and was
formed upon the suggestion of a preceding piece. It has been
observed with truth by Gervinus that the farcical incidents of
this play have been connected by Shakespeare with a tragic back-
ground, which is probably his own invention. With beauty, or
with pathos, or with thought, Shakespeare can mingle his mirth;
and then he is happy, and knows how to deal with play of wit
or humorous characterization ; but an entirely comic subject some-
what disconcerts the poet. On this ground, if no other were
forthcoming, it might be suspected that * The Taming of the
Shrew* was not altogether the work of Shakespeare's hand. The
secondary intrigues and minor incidents were of little interest to
EDWARD DOWDEN 48 n
the poet. But in the buoyant force of Petruchio's character, in
his subduing tempest of high spirits, and in the person of the
foiled revoltress against the law of sex, who carries into her
wifely loyalty the same energy which she had shown in her vir-
gin sauvagerie, there were elements of human character in which
the imagination of the poet took delight.
Unless it be its own excess, however, Shakespeare's laughter
seems to fear nothing. It does not, when it has once arrived at
its full development, fear enthusiasm, or passion, or tragic
intensity; nor do these fear it. The traditions of the English
drama had favored the juxtaposition of the serious and comic:
but it was reserved for Shakespeare to make each a part of the
other; to interpenetrate tragedy with comedy, and comedy with
tragic earnestness.
SHAKESPEARE'S PORTRAITURE OF WOMEN
From < Transcripts and Studies >
OF ALL the daughters of his imagination, which did Shake-
speare love the best ? Perhaps we shall not err if we say
one of the latest born of them all, — our English Imogen.
And what most clearly shows us how Shakespeare loved Imogen
is this — he has given her faults, and has made them exquisite,
so that we love her better for their sake. No one has so quick
and keen a sensibility to whatever pains and to whatever glad-
dens as she. To her a word is a blow; and as she is quick in
her sensibility, so she is quick in her perceptions, piercing at
once through the Queen's false show of friendship; quick in her
contempt for what is unworthy, as for all professions of love
from the clown-prince, Cloten; quick in her resentment, as when
she discovers the unjust suspicions of Posthumus. Wronged she
is indeed by her husband, but in her haste she too grows unjust;
yet she is dearer to us for the sake of this injustice, proceeding
as it does from the sensitiveness of her love. It is she, to whom
a word is a blow, who actually receives a buffet from her hus-
band's hand; but for Imogen it is a blessed stroke, since it is the
evidence of his loyalty and zeal on her behalf. In a moment he
is forgiven, and her arms are round his neck.
Shakespeare made so many perfect women unhappy that he
owed us some amende. And he has made that amende by letting
4gI2 EDWARD DOWDEN
us see one perfect woman supremely happy. Shall our last
glance at Shakespeare's plays show us Florizel at the rustic
merry-making, receiving blossoms from the hands of Perdita ? or
Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess in Prospero's cave, and
winning one a king and one a queen, while the happy fathers
gaze in from the entrance of the cave ? We can see a more
delightful sight than these — Imogen with her arms around the
neck of Posthumus, while she puts an edge upon her joy by the
playful challenge and mock reproach —
<(Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock, and now
Throw roe again ;w
and he responds—
<(Hang there like a fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die.M
We shall find in all Shakespeare no more blissful creatures
than these two.
THE INTERPRETATION OF LITERATURE
From < Transcripts and Studies >
THE happiest moment in a critic's hours of study is when,
seemingly by some divination, but really as the result of
patient observation and thought, he lights upon the central
motive of a great work. Then, of a sudden, order begins to
form itself from the crowd and chaos of his impressions and
ideas. There is a moving hither and thither, a grouping or co-
ordinating of all his recent experiences, which goes on of its own
accord; and every instant his vision becomes clearer, and new
meanings disclose themselves in what had been lifeless and un-
illuminated. It seems as if he could even stand by the artist's
side and co-operate with him in the process of creating. With
such a sense of joy upon him, the critic will think it no hard
task to follow the artist to the sources from whence he drew his
material, — it may be some dull chapter in an ancient chronicle,
or some gross tale of passion by an Italian novelist, — and he
will stand by and watch with exquisite pleasure the artist hand-
ling that crude material, and refashioning and refining it, and
breathing into it the breath of a higher life. Even the minutest
EDWARD DOWDEN
4813
difference of text between an author's earlier and later draft, or
a first and second edition, has now become a point not for dull
commentatorship, but a point of life, at which he may touch
with his finger the pulse of the creator in his fervor of creation.
From each single work of a great author we advance to
his total work, and thence to the man himself, — to the heart
and brain from which all this manifold world of wisdom and wit
and passion and beauty has proceeded. Here again, before we
address ourselves to the interpretation of the author's mind, we
patiently submit ourselves to a vast series of impressions. And
in accordance with Bacon's maxim that a prudent interrogation
is the half of knowledge, it is right to provide ourselves with a
number of well-considered questions which we may address to
our author. Let us cross-examine him as students of mental and
moral science, and find replies in his written words. Are his
senses vigorous and fine ? Does he see color as well as form ?
Does he delight in all that appeals to the sense of hearing — the
voices of nature, and the melody and harmonies of the art of
man ? Thus Wordsworth, exquisitely organized for enjoying and
interpreting all natural, and if we may so say, homeless and
primitive sounds, had but little feeling for the delights of music.
Can he enrich his poetry by gifts from the sense of smell, as
did Keats; or is his nose like Wordsworth's, an idle promontory
projecting into a desert air ? Has he like Browning a vigorous
pleasure in all strenuous muscular movements; or does he like
Shelley live rapturously in the finest nervous thrills ? How does
he experience and interpret the feeling of sex, and in what parts
of his entire nature does that feeling find its elevating connections
and associations ? What are his special intellectual powers ? Is
his intellect combative or contemplative ? What are the laws which
chiefly preside over the associations of his ideas ? What are the
emotions which he feels most strongly ? and how do his emotions
coalesce with one another ? Wonder, terror, awe, love, grief,
hope, despondency, the benevolent affections, admiration, the re-
ligious sentiment, the moral sentiment, the emotion of power,
irascible emotion, ideal emotion — how do these make themselves
felt in and through his writings ? What is his feeling for the
beautiful, the sublime, the ludicrous ? Is he of weak or vigorous
will ? In the conflict of motives, which class of motives with
him is likely to predominate ? Is he framed to believe or framed
to doubt ? Is he prudent, just, temperate, or the reverse of
4gI4 EDWARD DOWDEN
these ? These and such-like questions are not to be crudely and
formally proposed, but are to be used with tact; nor should the
critic press for hard and definite answers, but know how skill-
fully to glean its meaning from an evasion. He is a dull cross-
examiner who will invariably follow the scheme which he has
thought out and prepared beforehand, and who cannot vary his
questions to surprise or beguile the truth from an unwilling wit- .
ness. But the tact which comes from natural gift and from
experience may be well supported by something of method, —
method well hidden away from the surface and from sight.
This may be termed the psychological method of study. But
we may also follow a more objective method. Taking the chief
themes with which literature and art are conversant — God, ex-
ternal nature, humanity — we may inquire how our author has
dealt with each of these. What is his theology, or his philoso-
phy of the universe ? By which we mean no abstract creed or
doctrine, but the tides and currents of feeling and of faith, as
well as the tendencies and conclusions of the intellect. Under
what aspect has this goodly frame of things, in whose midst \\x>
are, revealed itself to him ? How has he regarded and inter-
preted the life of man ? Under each of these great themes a
multitude of subordinate topics are included. And alike in this
and in what we have termed the psychological method of study,
we shall gain double results if we examine a writer's works in
the order of their chronology, and thus become acquainted with
the growth and development of his powers, and the widening and
deepening of his relations with man, with external nature, and
with that Supreme Power, unknown yet well known, of which
nature and man are the manifestation. As to the study of an
artist's technical qualities, this, by virtue of the fact that he is
an artist, is of capital importance; and it may often be associated
with the study of that which his technique is employed to express
and render — the characteristics of his mind, and of the vision
which he has attained of the external universe, of humanity, and
of God. Of all our study, the last end and aim should be to
ascertain how a great writer or artist has served the life of man;
to ascertain this, to bring home to ourselves as large a portion
as may be of the gain wherewith he has enriched human life,
and to render access to that store of wisdom, passion, and power,
easier and surer for others.
4815
A. CONAN DOYLE
(1859-)
JHE author of 'The White Company,* 'The Great Shadow, > and
(Micah Clarke > has been heard to lament the fact that his
introduction to American readers came chiefly through the
good offices of his accomplished friend <( Sherlock Holmes. M Dr.
Doyle would prefer to be judged by his more serious and laborious
work, as it appears in his historic romances. But he has found it
useless to protest. ( The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes > delighted a
public which enjoys incident, mystery, and above all that matching
of the wits of a clever man against the
dumb resistance of the secrecy of inani-
mate things, which results in the triumph
of the human intelligence. Moreover, in
Sherlock Holmes himself the reader per-
ceived a new character in fiction. The
inventors of the French detective story, —
that ingenious Chinese puzzle of literature,
— have no such wizard as he to show.
Even Poe, past master of mystery-making,
is more or less empirical in his methods of
mystery-solving.
But Sherlock Holmes is a true product
of his time. He is an embodiment of the
scientific spirit seeing microscopically and
applying itself to construct, from material vestiges and psychologic
remainders, an unknown body of proof. From the smallest frag-
ments he deduces the whole structure, precisely as the great natu-
ralists do ; and so flawless are his reasonings that a course of ( The
Adventures of Sherlock Holmes * would not be bad training in a
high-school class in logic.
The creator of this eminent personage was born in Edinburgh in
1859, of a line of artists; his grandfather, John Doyle, having been
a famous political caricaturist, whose works, under the signature
(<H. B.," were purchased at a high price by the British Museum. The
quaint signature of his father — a capital D, with a little bird
perched on top, gained him the affectionate sobriquet of (< Dicky
Doyle w ; and Dicky Doyle's house was the gathering-place of artists
and authors, whose talk served to decide the destiny of the lad
A. CONAN DOYLE
gj6 A. CON AN DOYLE
Conan. For though he was intended for the medical profession, and
after studying in Germany had kept his terms at the Medical Col-
lege of Edinburgh University, the love of letters drove him forth in
his early twenties to try his fortunes in the literary world of London.
Inheriting from his artist ancestry a sense of form and color, a
faculty of constructiveness, and a vivid imagination, his studiousness
and his industry have turned his capacities into abilities. For his
romance of * The White Company * he read more than two hundred
books, and spent on it more than two years of labor. * Micah
Clarke ' and ( The Great Shadow } involved equal wit and conscience.
In his historic fiction he has described the England of Edward III.,
of James II., and of to-day, the Scotland of George III., the France
of Edward III., of Louis XIV., and of Napoleon, and the America of
Frontenac; while, in securing this correctness of historic detail, he
has not neglected the first duty of a story-teller, which is to be
interesting.
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
From <The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.> Copyright 1892. by Harper &
Brothers
I HAD called upon my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes one day in
the autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversation
with a very stout, florid-faced elderly gentleman, with fiery
red hair. With an apology for my intrusion I was about to with-
draw, when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed
the door behind me.
w You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear
Watson, w he said, cordially.
w I was afraid that you were engaged. w
<(So I am. Very much so. w
"Then I can wait in the next room."
"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my part-
ner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have
no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob
of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small,
fat-encircled eyes.
"Try the settee, » said Holmes, relapsing into his arm-chair
and putting his finger-tips together, as was his custom when in
judicial moods. (< I know, my dear Watson, that you share my
A. CON AN DOYLE 4817
love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and hum-
drum routine of every-day life. You have shown your relish for
it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and
if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many
of my own little adventures. a
"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,"
I observed.
<(You will remember that I remarked the other day, just
before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss
Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary com-
binations we must go to life itself, which is always far more dar-
ing than any effort of the im agination. )}
<(A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting. }>
(<You did, doctor; but none the less you must come round to
my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on
you, until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges
me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough
to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which
promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to
for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest
and most unique things are very often connected not with the
larger but with the smaller crimes; and occasionally, indeed,
where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has
been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me
to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not;
but the course of events is certainly among the most singular
that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would
have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask
you, not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the
opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story
makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips.
As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course
of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other
similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance
I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief,
unique. J>
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of
some little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper
from the inside pocket of his great-coat. As he glanced down
the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward, and the
paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man,
VIII — 30:1
8lg A. CONAN DOYLE
and endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our
visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British
tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy
gray shepherd's-check trousers, a not over clean black frock-coat
unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat, with a heavy
brassy Albert chain and a square pierced bit of metal dangling
down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown
overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside
him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable
about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of
extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he
shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning
glances. w Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time
done manual labor, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason,
that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable
amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.*
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
" How in the name of good fortune did you know all that,
Mr. Holmes ? " he asked. w How did you know, for example,
that I did manual labor ? It's as true as gospel, for I began as
a ship's carpenter."
w Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size-
larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the
muscles are more developed."
<( Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry ? "
w I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read
that; especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order,
you use an arc-and-compass breastpin."
<( Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing ? "
(< What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny
for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
elbow where you rest it upon the desk ? M
« Well, but China ? »
"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your
right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a
small study of tattoo marks, and have even contributed to the
literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales
A. CONAN DOYLE 4819
of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When in addition
I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter
becomes even more simple."
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never! " said he.
(< I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see
that there was nothing in it, after all. "
(< I begin to think, Watson, * said Holmes, (< that I make a
mistake in explaining. < Omne ignotum pro magnifico, } you
know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer
shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertise-
ment, Mr. Wilson ? "
<( Yes, I have got it now, " he answered, with his thick red
finger planted half-way down the column. (< Here it is. This is
what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir. "
I took the paper from him, and read as follows: —
<( To THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE : — On account of the bequest of
the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U.S.A., there is now
another vacancy open, which entitles a member of the League to a
salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed
men who are sound in body and mind, and above the age of twenty-
one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock,
to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet
Street. »
(< What on earth does this mean ? " I ejaculated, after I had
twice read over the extraordinary announcement.
Holmes chuckled, and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit
when in high spirits. (< It is a little off the beaten track, isn't
it ? " said he. <( And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch, and
tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which
this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make
a note, doctor, of the paper and the date."
ttlt is the Morning Chronicle of April 27th, 1890. Just two
months ago."
(< Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson ? w
<(Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead: <( I have a
small pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the city.
It's not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done
more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two
assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to
4g20 A. CONAN DOYLE
pay him, but that he is willing to come for half wages, so as to
learn the business. B
<( What is the name of this obliging youth ? ° asked Sherlock
Holmes.
<(His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth,
either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter
assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could bet-
ter himself, and earn twice what I am able to give him. But
after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head ? w
<( Why, indeed ? You seem most fortunate in having an cin-
ployt who comes under the full market price. It is not a com-
mon experience among employers in this age. I don't know that
your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement."
* Oh, he has his faults, too, w said Mr. Wilson. w Never was
such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera
when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down
into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures.
That is his main fault; but on the whole, he's a good worker.
There's no vice in him."
(< He is still with you, I presume ? w
<( Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of sim-
ple cooking, and keeps the place clean — that's all I have in the
house, for I am a widower, and never had any family. We live
very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our
heads, and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.
"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.
Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks,
with this very paper in his hand, and he says: —
<( < I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed
man.*
« < Why that ? > I asks.
<<<Why,) says he, ( here's another vacancy on the League of
the Red-Headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any
man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies
than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end
what to do with the money. If my hair would only change
color, here's a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.*
« < Why, what is it, then ? > I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I
am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me
instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end with-
out putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't
A. CONAN DOYLE
4821
know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad
of a bit of news.
" ( Have you never heard of the League of the Red-Headed
Men ? * he asked, with his eyes open.
<« Never. >
« < Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for
one of the vacancies.*
(< ' And what are they worth ? * I asked.
"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year; but the work is
slight, and it need not interfere very much with one's other
occupations. *
"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my
ears, for the business has not been over good for some years,
and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.
<(<Tell me all about it,* said I.
<<<Well,> said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see
for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the
address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can
make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire,
Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was
himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-
headed men; so when he died it was found that he had left his
enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to
apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose
hair is of that color. From all I hear, it is splendid pay and
very little to do. *
"'But,* said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men
who would apply.*
<( ( Not so many as you might think, * he answered. ' You see
it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This
American had started from London when he was young, and he
wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then again, I have
heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or
dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now
if you care to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but
perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out
of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.*
" Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for your-
selves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it
seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the
matter, I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever
4g22 A. CONAN DOYLE
met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that
I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put
up the shutters for the day, and to come right away with me.
He was very willing to have a holiday; so we shut the business
up, and started off for the address that was given us in the
advertisement.
(< I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes.
From north, south, east, and west, every man who had a shade
of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the adver-
tisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and
Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange -barrow. I should not
have thought there were so many in the whole country as were
brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of
color they were — straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver,
clay; but as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the
real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were wait-
ing, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would
not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he
pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the
crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There
was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and
some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we
could, and soon found ourselves in the office."
"Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked
Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a
huge pinch of snuff. " Pray continue your very interesting state-
ment. »
" There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden
chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man, with a
head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to
each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to
find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a
vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all.
However, when our turn came, the little man was much more
favorable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the
door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.
<<(This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, (and he is
willing to fill a vacancy in the League.'
<( ( And he is admirably suited for it, * the other answered.
(He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen
anything so fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on
A. CONAN DOYLE 4823
one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then
suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated
me warmly on my success.
<( ( It would be injustice to hesitate,* said he. ( You will, how-
ever, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution. *
With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until
I yelled with the pain. ( There is water in your eyes,* said he,
as he released me. ( I perceive that all is as it should be. But
we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs
and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which
would disgust you with human nature.* He stepped over to the
window, and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the
vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from
below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions, until
there was not a red head to be seen except my own and that of
the manager.
(<<My name,* said he, (is Mr. Duncan .Ross, and I am myself
one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor.
Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson ? Have you a family ? *
(< I answered that I had not.
(< His face fell immediately.
w ( Dear me,* he said, gravely, ( that is very serious indeed! I
am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was of course for the
propagation and spread of the red-heads, as well as for their
maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a
bachelor. *
(< My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that
I was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it
over for a few minutes, he said that it would be all right.
<<(In the case of another,* said he, (the objection might be
fatal, but we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such a
head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon
your new duties ? *
<((Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,*
said I.
<( ( Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson ! * said Vincent
Spaulding. (I shall be able to look after that for you.*
(< ( What would be the hours ? * I asked.
«<Ten to two.*
(< Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening,
Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is
A. CONAN DOYLE
just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a
little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a
good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up.
<<(That would suit me very well/ said I. 'And the pay?*
<( ( Is £4 a week. *
« < And the work ? >
" * Is purely nominal. *
« ( What do you call purely nominal ? *
« ( Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the build-
ing, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole posi-
tion forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't
comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during
that time.*
<( ( It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leav-
ing/ said I.
"'No excuse will avail/ said Mr. Duncan Ross, 'neither sick-
ness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or
you lose your billet/
"'And the work?*
w ( Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the
first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink,
pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair.
Will you be ready to-morrow ? *
w< Certainly/ I answered.
"'Then good-by, Mr. Jabez Wilson; and let me congratulate
you once more on the important position which you have been
fortunate enough to gain.* He bowed me out of the room, and
I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or
do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.
"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I
was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that
the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what
its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether
past belief that any one could make such a will, or that they
would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying
out the ( Encyclopaedia Britannica. ' Vincent Spaulding did what
he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself
out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined
to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink,
and with a quill pen and seven sheets of foolscap paper I started
off for Pope's Court.
A. CONAN DOYLE
4825
(< Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan
Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me
off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop
in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two
o'clock he bade me good-by, complimented me upon the amount
that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me.
(< This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday
the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns
for my week's work. It was the same next week, and the same
the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every
afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to
coming in only once of a morning, and then after a time he
did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave
the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that
I would not risk the loss of it.
<( Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about
Abbots and Archery and Armor and Architecture and Attica, and
hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B's before very
long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly
filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole
business came to an end."
«To an end?»
<(Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my
work as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked
with a little square of card-board hammered on to the middle of
the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for your-
self."
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a
sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion: —
THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
is
DISSOLVED.
October pt/t, 1890.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and
the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so
completely overtopped every other consideration that we both
burst out into a roar of laughter.
A. CONAN DOYLE
<( I cannot see that there is anything very funny, w cried our
client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. " If you can
do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."
« No, no, " cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from
which he had half risen. (< I really wouldn't miss your case for
the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you
will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.
Pray, what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door ? »
<( I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I
called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know
anything about it. Finally I went to the landlord, who is an
accountant living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he
could tell me what had become of the Red- Headed League. He
said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked
him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name
was new to him.
*<<Well,> said I, (the gentleman at No. 4.*
(< ( What, the red-headed man ? *
"'Oh,* said he, (his name was William Morris. He was a
solicitor, and was using my room as a temporary convenience
until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'
«< Where could I find him?*
" ( Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes,
17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.*
"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it
was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had
ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."
" And what did you do then ? " asked Holmes.
(<I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice
of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He
could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that
was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose
such a place without a struggle; so as I had heard that you
were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need
of it, I came right away to you."
"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an
exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.
From what you have told me, I think that it is possible that
graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."
A. CONAN DOYLE
4827
<( Grave enough ! * said Mr. Jabez Wilson. (< Why, I have lost
four pound a week."
<(As far as you are personally concerned, " remarked Holmes,
<( I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraor-
dinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer
by some £30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you
have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A.
You have lost nothing by them."
<( No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they
are, and what their object was in playing this prank — if it was
a prank — upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them,
for it cost them two-and-thirty pounds."
<(We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And
first one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours
who first called your attention to the advertisement — how long
had he been with you ? "
"About a month then."
(< How did he come ? "
<( In answer to an advertisement."
<( Was he the only applicant ? "
<(No; I had a dozen."
<( Why did you pick him ? "
(< Because he was handy, and would come cheap. "
<(At half wages, in fact."
«Yes."
<( What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding ? "
(< Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his
face, though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid
upon his forehead."
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. (< I
thought as much, " said he. (< Have you ever observed that his
ears are pierced for earrings ? "
<(Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him
when he was a lad."
<( Hum ! " said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. (< He is
still with you ? "
<(Oh yes, sir; I have only just left him."
(< And has your business been attended to in your absence ? "
<( Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do
of a morning."
(< That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an
opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day
A. CON AN DOYLE
is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a con-
clusion."
"Well, Watson, w said Holmes, when our visitor had left us,
<( what do you make of it all ? w
« I make nothing of it," I answered, frankly. <( It is a most
mysterious business."
«As a rule," said Holmes, " the more bizarre a thing is, the
less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, feature-
less crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face
is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this
matter. w
* What are you going to do, then ? " I asked.
"To smoke," he answered. "It-is quite a three-pipe problem,
and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He
curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to
his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his
black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.
I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and
indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his
chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind, and
put his pipe down upon the mantel-piece.
<( Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he
remarked. w What do you think, Watson ? Could your patients
spare you for a few hours ? "
(< I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very
absorbing. "
"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the
city first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe
that there is a good deal of German music on the programme,
which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is
introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along! "
We traveled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a
short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the
singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was
a poky little shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-
storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in inclosure,
where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-
bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncon-
genial atmosphere. Three gilt balls, and a brown board with
((JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it, with his head on one
A. CONAN DOYLE
4829
side, and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly be-
tween puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and
then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses.
Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's, and having thumped
vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times
he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened
by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him
to step in.
(< Thank you, " said Holmes, (< I only wish to ask you how you
would go from here to the Strand. "
(< Third right, fourth left, " answered the assistant, promptly,
closing the door.
"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes, as we .walked away.
<( He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London,
and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be
third. I have known something of him before. *
(< Evidently, " said I, <( Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good
deal in this mystery of the Red-Headed League. I am sure that
you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."
« Not him. »
« What then ? »
<( The knees of his trousers. w
<( And what did you see ? "
"What I expected to see."
w Why did you beat the pavement ? "
(( My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk.
We are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of
Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie
behind it."
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a
contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was
one of the main arteries which convey the traffic of the city to
the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the im-
mense stream of commerce, flowing in a double tide inward and
outward, while the foot-paths were black with the hurrying
swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize, as we looked at
the line of fine shops and stately business premises, that they
really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant
square which we had just quitted.
(< Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glanc-
ing along the line, <( I should like just to remember the order
A. CONAN DOYLE
of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact
knowledge of London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the
little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Sub-
urban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-
building depot. That carries us right on to the other block.
And now, doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some
play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-
land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there
are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not
only a very capable performer, but a composer of no ordinary
merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the
most perfect, happiness, gently waving his long thin fingers in
time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid,
dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound.
Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent,
as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual
nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction
against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally
predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and as I knew well, he
was never so truly formidable as when for days on end he had
been lounging in his arm-chair, amid his improvisations and his
black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase
would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning
power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were
unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on
a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I
saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James's
Hall, I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom
he had set himself to hunt down.
(< You want to go home, no doubt, doctor, " he remarked as
we emerged.
"Yes, it would be as well."
(< And I have some business to do which will take some hours.
This business at Coburg Square is serious."
<( Why serious ? "
w A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every rea-
son to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day
being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your
help to-night. "
A. CONAN DOYLE
4831
« At what time ? »
<( Ten will be early enough. }>
<( I shall be at Baker Street at ten. »
"Very well. And I say, doctor, there may be some little
danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket. w He
waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant
among the crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I
was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my
dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had
heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it
was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened,
but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business
was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house
in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story
of the red-headed copier of the < Encyclopaedia > down to the
visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which
he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and
why should I go armed ? Where were we going, and what were
we to do ? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced
pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable man — a man who might
play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in
despair, and set the matter aside until night should bring an
explanation.
It was a quarter past nine when I started from home and
made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to
Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as
I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above.
On entering his room I found Holmes in animated conversation
with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the
official police agent, while the other was a long thin sad-faced
man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-
coat.
(<Ha! our party is complete, w said Holmes, buttoning up his
pea-jacket, and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.
<( Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard ? Let
me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our com-
panion in to-night's adventure. w
"We're hunting in couples again, doctor, you see,8 said Jones,
in his consequential way. (<Our friend here is a wonderful man
for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to
do the running down. B
g A. CONAN DOYLE
(< I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our
chase, » observed Mr. Merryweather, gloomily.
«You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,0
said the police agent, loftily. (< He has his own little methods,
which are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too the-
oretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in
him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that
business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has
been more nearly correct than the official force. °
(<Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right, ° said the
stranger, with deference. (< Still, I confess that I miss my rub-
ber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years
that I have not had my rubber. °
<(I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, <( that you will
play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet,
and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merry-
weather, the stake will be some ,£30,000; and for you, Jones, it
will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."
<(John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's
a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his
profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on
any criminal in London. He's a remarkable man, is young John
Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has
been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his
fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we
never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib
in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphan-
age in Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years, and
have never set eyes on him yet.0
(< I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you
to-night. I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John
Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profes-
sion. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started.
If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow
in the second.0
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long
drive, and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he
had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless
labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farringdon
Street.
<( We are close there now, ° my friend remarked. (< This fellow
Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
A. CONAN DOYLE
4833
matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is
not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession.
He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bull-dog, and
as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon any one.
Here we are, and they are waiting for us.w
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we
had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed,
and following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed
down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he
opened for us. .Within, there was a small corridor, which ended
in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led
down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another
formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern,
and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which
was piled all around with crates and massive boxes.
<(You are not very vulnerable from above, w Holmes remarked,
as he held up the lantern and gazed about him.
(<Nor from below, M said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick
upon the flags which lined the floor. (<Why, dear me, it sounds
quite hollow ! w he remarked, looking up in surprise.
(< I must really ask you to be a little more quiet, w said Holmes,
severely. (< You have already imperiled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to
sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere ? M
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate,
with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell
upon his knees upon the floor, and with the lantern and a mag-
nifying lens began to examine minutely the cracks between the
stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to
his feet again, and put his glass in his pocket.
(<We have at least an hour before us,w he remarked; "for
they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is
safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner
they do their work the longer time they will have for their
escape. We are at present, doctor — as no doubt you have di-
vined— in the cellar at the City branch of one of the principal
London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors,
and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more
daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in
this cellar at present."
VHI 303
A. CONAN DOYLE
(<It is our French gold," whispered the director. <(We have
had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.8
«Your French gold ? "
<(Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our
resources, and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from
the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never
had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in
our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons
packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is
much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch
office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject."
(< Which were very well justified, * observed Holmes. <( And
now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that
within an hour matters will come to a head. In the mean time,
Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark
lantern. "
«And sit in the dark?"
<( I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket,
and I thought that, as we were a partie carrte, you might have
your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations
have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light.
And first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring
men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they
may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand
behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those.
Then when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they
fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down."
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden
case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the
front of his lantern, and left us in pitch darkness — such an abso-
lute darkness as I had never before experienced. The smell of
hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there,
ready to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves
worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something de-
pressing and subduing in the sudden gtoom, and in the cold
dank air of the vault.
"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. <( That is
back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that
you have done what I asked you, Jones ? "
(< I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front
door. "
A. CONAN DOYLE
4835
(< Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be
silent and wait. w
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it
was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the
night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above
us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my
position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of
tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear
the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish
the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin,
sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could
look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my
eyes caught the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement.
Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then,
without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a
hand appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about
in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more
the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor.
Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was
dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink
between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a
rending, tearing sound, one of the broad white stones turned
over upon its side, and left a square gaping hole, through which
streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a
clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then,
with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-
high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In
another instant he stood at the side of the hole, and was hauling
after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale
face and a shock of very red hair.
(< It's all clear, M he whispered. (< Have you the chisel and
the bags? — Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing
for it!8
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by
the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the
sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light
flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop
came down on the man's wrist and the pistol clinked upon the
stone floor.
4836
A. CONAN DOYLE
(< It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes, blandly. (<You have
no chance at all."
<( So I see, " the other answered, with the utmost coolness.
(< I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his
coat-tails. "
"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said
Holmes.
" Oh, indeed ! You seem to have done the thing very com-
pletely. I must compliment you. M
(<And I you,w Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was
very new and effective."
"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's
quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out, while
I fix the derbies."
" I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands, "
remarked our prisoner, as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.
"You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins.
Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say
( sir * and * please. J "
"All right," said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. "Well,
would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab
to carry your Highness to the police station ? "
"That is better," said John Clay, serenely. He made a
sweeping bow to the three of us, and walked quietly off in the
custody of the detective.
" Really, Mr. Holmes, " said Mr. Merryweather, as we fol-
lowed them from the cellar, " I do not know how the bank can
thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have
detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the
most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come
within my experience."
" I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with
Mr. John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small
expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to
refund; but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an
experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the
very remarkable narrative of the Red-Headed League."
"You see, Watson," he explained, in the early hours of the
morning, as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker
Street, "it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only
A. CONAN DOYLE 4837
possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertise-
ment of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia,*
must be to get this not over bright pawnbroker out of the way
for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of
managing it, but really, it would be difficult to suggest a better.
The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by
the color of his accomplice's hair. The ^4 a week was a lure
which must draw him, — and what was it to them, who were play-
ing for thousands ? They put in the advertisement, one rogue
has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to
apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence
every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the
assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that
he had some strong motive for securing the situation."
w But how could you guess what the motive was ? °
w Had there been women in the house, I should have sus-
pected a mere vulgar intrigue. That however was out of the
question. The man's business was a small one, and there was
nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate
preparations and such an expenditure as they were at. It must
then be something out of the house. What could it be ? I
thought of the assistant's fondness for photography, and his trick
of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of
this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious
assistant, and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest
and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something
in the cellar — something which took many hours a day for
months on end. What could it be, once more ? I could think of
nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other build-
ing.
<( So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action.
I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I
was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or
behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and as I
hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes,
but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly
looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You
must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained
they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only
remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked
round the corner, saw that the City and Suburban Bank abutted
4838
A. CONAN DOYLE
on our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem.
When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland
Yard, and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the
result that you have seen."
<(And how could you tell that they would make their attempt
to-night ? " I asked.
"Well, when they closed their League offices, that was a sign
that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence —
in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it
was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be dis-
covered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit
them better than any other day, as it would give them two days
for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come
to-night. "
<(You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed, in unfeigned
admiration. <( It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings
true. "
(< It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. (<Alas! I
already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long
effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little
problems help me to do so.8
(< And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. <( Well, perhaps after all it is of
some little use," he remarked. <( ( L'homme c'est rien — 1'oeuvre
c'est tout, > as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."
THE BOWMEN'S SONG
From <The White Company >
WHAT of the bow ?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew wood,
The wood of English bows;
So men who are free
Love the old yew-tree
And the land where the yew-tree grows.
What of the cord ?
The cord was made in England:
A rough cord, a tough cord,
A cord that bowmen love;
A. CONAN DOYLE 4839
So we'll drain our jacks
To the English flax
And the land where the hemp was wove.
What of the shaft ?
The shaft was cut in England:
A long shaft, a strong shaft,
Barbed and trim and true;
So we'll drink all together
To the gray goose feather,
And the land where the gray goose flew.
What of the men ?
The men were bred in England:
The bowman — the yeoman —
The lads of dale and fell.
Here's to you — and to you!
To- the hearts that are true
And the land where the true hearts dwell.
Reprinted by permission of the American Publishers' Corporation, Publishers.
4840
HOLGER DRACHMANN
(1846-)
JOLGER DRACHMANN, born in Copenhagen October gih, 1846,
belongs to the writers characterized by Georg Brandes as
(( the men of the new era. w
Danish literature had stood high during the first half of the nine-
teenth century. In 1850 Oehlenschlager died. In 1870 there was prac-
tically no Danish literature. The reason for this may have been that
after the new political life of 1848-9 and the granting of the Danish
Constitution, politics absorbed all young talent, and men of literary
tastes put themselves at the service of the
daily press.
In 1872 Georg Brandes gave his lectures
on ( Main Currents in the Literature of the
Nineteenth Century* at the University of
Copenhagen. That same year Drachmann
published his first collection of ( Poems,*
and so began his extraordinary productivity
of poems, dramas, and novels. Of these, his
lyric poems are undoubtedly of the greatest
value. His is a distinctly lyric tempera-
ment. The new school had chosen for its
guide Brandes's teaching that (< Literature,
to be of significance, should discuss prob-
lems. ** In view of this fact it is somewhat
hard to understand why Drachmann should be called a man of the
new era. He never discusses problems. He always gives himself up
unreservedly to the subject which at that special moment claims his
sympathy. Taken as a whole, therefore, his writings present a cer-
tain inconsistency. He has shown himself alternately as socialist and
royalist, realist and romanticist, freethinker and believer, cosmopoli-
tan and national, according to the lyric enthusiasm of the moment.
Independent of these changes, the one thing to be admired and
enjoyed is his lyric feeling and the often exquisite form in which
he presents it. His larger compositions, novels, and dramas do not
show the same power over his subject.
If Drachmann discusses any problem, it is the problem Drachmann.
He does this sometimes with what Brandes calls (<a light and joking
self-irony , w in a most sympathetic way. Brandes quotes one of Drach-
HOLGER DRACHMANN
HOLGER DRACHMANN . 4841
mann's early stories, where it is said of the hero: — (<His name was
really Palnatoke Olsen; a continually repeated discord of two tones,
as he used to say.w Olsen is one of the most commonplace Danish
names. Palnatoke is the name of one of the fiercest warriors of
heathen antiquity, who, like a veritable Valhalla god, dared to oppose
the terrible Danish king Harald Blaatand. When Olsen's parents
gave him this name they unwittingly described their son, "forever
drawn by two poles: one the plain Olsen, the other the hot-headed
fiery Viking. » With this in mind, and considering Drachmann's liter-
ary works as a whole, one is irresistibly reminded of his friend and
contemporary in Norway, Bjornsterne Bjornson. There is this differ-
ence between them, however, that if the irony of Palnatoke Olsen
may be applied to both, one might for Drachmann use the abbrevi-
ation P. Olsen and for Bjornson undoubtedly Palnatoke O.
It might be said of Drachmann, as Sauer said of the Italian poet
Monti : — <{ Like a master in the art of appreciation, he knew how to
give himself up to great time-stirring ideas; somewhat as a gifted
actor throws himself into his part, with the full strength of his art,
with an enthusiasm carrying all before it, and in the most expressive
way; then when the part is played, lays it quietly aside and takes
hold of something else.^
When a young man, Drachmann studied at the Academy of Arts in
Copenhagen, and met with considerable success as a marine painter.
His love for the Northern seas shows itself in his poetry and prose,
and his descriptions of the sea and the life of the sailor and fisher-
man are of the truest and best yielded by his pen. He is the author
of no less than forty-six volumes of poems, dramas, novels, short
stories, and sketches, and of two unpublished dramas. His most im-
portant work is < Forskrevet > (Condemned), which is largely autobio-
graphical; his most attractive though not his strongest production is
the opera < Der Var Engang > (Once Upon a Time), founded on
Andersen's < The Swineherd,* with music by Sange Muller; his best
poems and tales are those dealing with the sea.
At present he lives in Hamburg, where on October roth, 1896, he
celebrated his fiftieth birthday and his twenty-fifth "Author-Jubilee,®
as the Danes call it. Among the features of the celebration were
the sending of an enormous number of telegrams from Drachmann's
admirers in Europe and America, and the performance of two of his
plays, — one at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, the other at the
Stadt Theatre in Altona.
g . HOLGER DRACHMANN
THE SKIPPER AND HIS SHIP
From <Paul and Virginia of a Northern Zone>: copyright 1895, by Way and
Williams, Chicago
THE Anna Dorothea, in the North Sea, was pounding along
under shortened sail. The weather was thick, the air dense;
there was a falling barometer.
It had been a short trip this time. Leroy and Sons, wine
merchants of Havre, had made better offers than the old houses
in Bordeaux. At each one of his later trips, Captain Spang had
said it should be his last. He would (< lay up" at home; he was
growing too stout and clumsy for the sea, and now he must
trust fully to Tonnes, his first mate. The captain's big broad
face was flushed as usual; he always looked as if he were illumi-
nated by a setting October sun; there was no change here —
rather, the sunset tint was stronger. But Tonnes noted how the
features, which he knew best in moments of simple good-nature
and of sullen tumult, had gradually relaxed. He thought that it
would indeed soon be time for his old skipper to <( lay up * ; yet
perhaps a few trips might still be made.
(< Holloa, Tonnes ! let her go about before the next squall
strikes her. She lies too dead on this bow. }>
The skipper had raised his head above the cabin stairs. As
usual, he was in his shirt-sleeves, and his scanty hair fluttered in
the wind. When he had warned his mate, he again disappeared
in the cabin.
Tonnes gave the order to the man at the helm, and hurried
to help at the main-braces. The double-reefed main-topsail swung
about, the Anna Dorothea caught the wind somewhat sluggishly,
and not without getting considerable water over her; then fol-
lowed the fore-topsail, the reefed foresail, and the trysail. When
the tacking was finished and the sails had again caught the
wind, the trysail was torn from the boltropes with a loud crack.
The captain's head appeared again,
(< We must close-reef ! * said he.
The last reef was taken in; the storm came down and lashed
the sea; the sky grew more and more threatening; the waves
dashed over the deck at each plunge of the old bark in the sea.
The old vessel, which had carried her captain for a generation,
lay heavily on the water — Tonnes thought too heavily.
HOLDER DRACHMANN
The second mate — the same who had played the accordion at
the inn — came over to Tonnes.
<( It was wrong to stow the china-clay at the bottom and the
casks on top; she lies horribly dead, and I'm afraid we shall have
to use the pumps.*
" Yes, I said so to the old man, but he would have it that
way," answered Tonnes. uWe shall have a wet night."
<(We shall, surely," said the second mate.
Tonnes crawled up to the helm and looked at the compass.
Two men were at the helm — lashed fast. Tonnes looked up
into the rigging and out to windward; then suddenly he cried,
with the full force of his lungs: —
<( Look out for breakers ! "
Tonnes himself helped at the wheel; but the vessel only half
answered the helm. The greater portion of the sea struck the
bow, the quarter, and the bulwarks and stanchions amidship, so
that they creaked and groaned. One of the men at the helm had
grasped Tonnes, who would otherwise have been swept into the
lee scupper. When the ship had righted from the terrible blow,
the captain stood on the deck in his oilcloth suit.
(< Are any men missing ? *> cried he, through the howling of
the wind and the roaring of the water streaming fore and aft,
unable to escape quickly enough through the scuppers.
The storm raged with undiminished fury. The crew — and
amongst them Prussian, who had been promoted to be ship's-dog
— by-and-by dived forward through the seething salt water and
the fragments of wreck that covered the deck.
Now it was that the second mate was missing.
The captain looked at Tonnes, and then out on the wild sea.
He scarcely glanced at the crushed long-boat; even if a boat
could have been launched, it would have been too late. Tonnes
and his skipper were fearless men, who took things as they were.
If any help could have been given, they would have given it.
But their eyes sought vainly for any dark speck amidst the
foaming waves — and it was necessary to care for themselves,
the vessel and the crew.
(< God save his soul ! w murmured Captain Spang.
Tonnes passed his hand across his brow, and went to his duty.
Evening set in; the wind increased rather than decreased.
(< She is taking in water, " said the captain, who had sounded
the pumps.
4844
HOLGER DRACHMANN
Tonnes assented.
"We must change her course,0 said the captain. (( She
pitches too heavily in this sea."
The bark was held up to the wind as closely as possible.
The pumps were worked steadily, but often got out of order on.
account of the china-clay, which mixed with the water down in
the hold.
It was plain that the vessel grew heavier and heavier; her
movements in climbing a wave were more and more dead.
During the night a cry arose: again one of the crew was
washed overboard.
It was a long night and a wet one, as Tonnes had predicted.
Several times the skipper dived down into the cabin — Tonnes
knew perfectly well what for, but he said nothing. Few words-
were spoken on board the Anna Dorothea that night.
In the morning the captain, returning from one of his excur-
sions down below, declared that the cabin was half full of water.
(<We must watch for a sail," he said, abruptly and somewhat
huskily.
Tonnes passed the word round amongst the crew. One might
read on their faces that they were prepared for this, and that
they had ceased to hope, although they had not stopped work at
the pumps.
The whole of the weather bulwark, the cook's cabin and the
long-boat, were crushed or washed away; the water could be
heard below the hatches. While keeping a sharp lookout for
sails, many an eye glanced at the yawl as the last resort. But
on board Captain Spang's vessel the words were not yet spoken
which carried with them the doom of the ship : <c We are sinking ! B
In the gray-white of the dawn a signal was to be hoisted; the
bunting was tied together at the middle and raised half-mast high.
Both the captain and Tonnes had lashed themselves aft; for
now the bark was but little better than a wreck, over which the
billows broke incessantly, as the vessel, reeling like a drunken
man, exposed herself to the violent attacks of the sea instead of
parrying them.
(< A sail to windward, captain ! " cried Tonnes.
Captain Spang only nodded.
<( She holds her course ! w cried one of the crew excitedly.
(<No,w said Tonnes, quietly. (< She has seen us, and is bear-
ing down upon us!w
HOLGER DRACHMANN 4845
The captain again nodded.
w 'Tis a brig ! M cried one of the crew.
" A schooner-brig ! w Tonnes corrected. " She carries her sails
finely. I am sure she is a fruit-trader."
At last the strange vessel was so near that they could see her
deck each time she was thrown upon her side in the violent
seething sea.
w Yes, 'tis the schooner-brig ! w exclaimed Tonnes. <( Do you
remember, captain, the time when — w
Again Captain Spang nodded. He acted strangely. Tonnes
looked sharply at him, and shook his head.
Now Tonnes hailed the vessel : —
<( Help us! — We are sinking !w
At this moment two or three of the bark's crew rushed toward
the yawl, although Tonnes warned them back.
Captain Spang seemed changed. Evidently some opposing
feelings contended within him. Seeing the insubordination of the
men, he only shrugged his shoulders, and let Tonnes take full
charge.
The men were in the yawl, still hanging under the iron
davits. Now they cut the ropes; the yawl touched the water.
The crew of the other vessel gestured warningly; but it was too
late. A sea seized the yawl with its small crew, and the next
moment crushed it against the main chains of the bark. Their
shipmates raised a cry, and rushed to help them; but help was
impossible. Boat and crew had disappeared.
(< Didn't I say so ? B cried Tonnes, with flaming eyes.
Over there in the schooner-brig all was activity. From the
Anna Dorothea they could plainly see how the captain gave his
orders. He manoeuvred his vessel like a true sailor. To board
the wreck in such a sea would be madness. Therefore they
unreeved two long lines and attached them to the long-boat, one
on each side. Then they laid breeching under the boat, and
hauled it up amidships by means of tackle. Taking advantage
of a moment when their vessel was athwart the seas, they un-
loosed the tackle, and the boat swung out over the side; then
they cut the breeching, the boat fell on the water aft, and now
both lines were eased off quickly; while the brig caiight the
wind, the boat drifted toward the stern-sheets of the bark.
Tonnes was ready with a boat-hook, and connections were
quickly made between the boat and the wreck.
4846
HOLGER DRACHMANN
(< Quick now ! w cried Tonnes. <( Every man in the boat. No
one takes his clothes with him! We may be thankful if we save
our lives.0
The men were quickly over the stern-sheets and down in the
boat. Prussian whined, and kept close to Captain Spang, who
had not moved one step on the deck.
(< Come, captain ! w cried Tonnes, taking the skipper by the
arm.
(< What's the matter ? w asked the old man angrily.
Tonnes looked at him. Prussian barked.
<(We must get into the boat, captain. The vessel may sink
at any moment. Come ! w
The captain pressed his sou'wester down over his forehead,
and glanced around his deck.
The men in the boat cried out to them to come.
(< Well ! * said Captain Spang, but with an air so absent-
minded and a bearing so irresolute that Tonnes at last took a
firm hold on him.
Prussian showed his teeth at his former master.
<( You go first ! * exclaimed Tonnes, snatching the dog and
throwing him down to the men, who were having hard work to
keep the boat from wrecking.
When the dog was no longer on the deck, it seemed as if
Captain Spang's resistance was broken. Tonnes did not let go
his hold on him; but the young mate had to use almost super-
human strength to get the heavy old man down over the vessel's
side and placed on a seat in the boat.
As soon as they had observed from the brig that this had
been done, they hauled in both lines. The boat moved back
again; but it was a dangerous voyage, and all were obliged to
lash themselves fast to the thwarts with ropes placed there for
that purpose.
Captain Spang was like a child. Tonnes had to lash him to
the seat. The old man sat with his face hidden in his hands,
his back turned toward his ship, inactive, and seemingly uncon-
scious of what took place around him.
At last, when after a hard struggle all were on the deck of
the schooner-brig, her captain came forward, placed his hand on
his old friend's shoulder, and said: —
<( It is the second time, you see ! Well, we all cling to life,,
and the vessel over there is pretty old.8
HOLGER DRACHMANN
4847
Captain Spang started. He scarcely returned his friend's
hand-shaking.
<( My vessel, I say ! My papers ! All that I have is in the
vessel. I must go aboard, do you hear ? I must go aboard.
How could I forget ? w
The other skipper and Tonnes looked at each other.
Captain Spang wrung his hands and stamped on the deck, his
eyes fixed on his sinking vessel. She was still afloat; what did
he care for the gale and the heavy sea ? He belonged to the old
school of skippers; he was bound to his vessel by ties longer
than any life-line, heavier than any hawser: he had left his ship
in a bewildered state, and had taken nothing with him that
might serve to prove what he possessed and how long he had
possessed it. His good old vessel was still floating on the water.
He must, he would go there; if nobody would go with him, he
would go alone.
All remonstrances were in vain.
Tonnes pressed the other skipper's hand.
(< There is nothing else to be done. I know him, " said he.
(< So do I,w was the answer.
Captain Spang and his mate were again in the boat. As they
were on the point of starting, a loud whine and violent barking
sounded from the deck, and Prussian showed his one eye over
the railing.
<( Stay where you are ! w cried Tonnes. (< We shall be back
soon. "
But the dog did not understand him. Perhaps he had his
doubts; no one can say. He sprang overboard; Tonnes seized
him by the ear, and hauled him into the boat.
And then the two men and the dog ventured back to the
abandoned vessel.
This time the old man climbed on board without assistance.
Prussian whined in the boat.
(< Throw that dog up to me ! " cried the master.
Tonnes did so.
(< Shall I come up and help you ? w he called out.
<( No, I can find my own way.})
<( But hurry, captain ! do you understand ? " said Tonnes, who
anxiously noticed that the motions of the vessel were becoming
more and more dangerous, while he needed all his strength to
keep the boat clear of the wreck.
HOLGER DRACHMANN
An answer came from the bark, but he could not catch it.
In this moment Tonnes recalled the day when he rowed the
captain out on the bay to the brig. His next thought was of
Nanna. Oh, if she knew where they were!
And at this thought the mate's breast was filled with conflict-
ing emotions. The dear blessed girl! — Oh, if her father would
only come !
(< Captain ! }) cried Tonnes; (< Captain Spang! for God's sake,
come! Leave those papers alone. The vessel is sinking. We
may at any moment — w
He paused.
The captain stood at the stern-sheets. At his side was Prus-
sian, squinting down into the boat. There was an entirely
strange expression in Andreas Spang's face; a double expression
— one moment hard and defiant, the next almost solemn.
The sou'wester had fallen from his old head. His scanty
hairs fluttered in the wind. He held in his hand a parcel of
papers and a coil of rope. He pointed toward the brig.
(< There ! w he cried, throwing the package and the rope down
to Tonnes. (( Give the skipper this new line for his trouble.
He has used plenty of rope for us. You go back. I stay here.
Give — my — love — to the girl at home. — You and she — You
two — God bless you ! w
"Captain!" cried Tonnes in affright; <( you are sick; come,
let me — w
He prepared to climb on board.
Captain Spang lifted his hand threateningly, and Prussian
barked furiously.
(< Stay down there, boy, I say! The vessel and I, we belong
together. You shall take care of the girl. Good-by ! w
The Anna Dorothea rolled heavily over on one side, righted
again, and then began to plunge her head downwards, like a
whale that, tired of the surface, seeks rest at the bottom. The
crew of the brig hauled in the lines of the boat. Tossed on the
turbid sea, Tonnes saw his old skipper leaning against the helm,
the dog at his side. His gray hairs fluttered in the wind as
if they wafted a last farewell; and down with vessel and dog
went the old skipper — down into the wild sea that so long had
borne him on its waves.
HOLGER DRACHMANN
THE PRINCE'S SONG
From <Once Upon a Time5
PRINCESS, I come from out a land that lieth —
I know not in what arctic latitude:
Though high in the bleak north, it never sigheth
For sunny smiles; they wait not to be wooed.
Our privilege we know: the bright half-year
Illumines sea and shore with sunlit glory;
In twilight then our fertile fields we ear,
And round our brows we twine a wreath of story.
When winter decks with frost the bearded oak,
In songs and sagas we our youth recover;
Around the hearthstone crowd the listening folk,
While on the wall mysterious shadows hover.
The summer night, suffused with loving glow,
The future, dawning in a golden chalice,
Enkindles hope in hearts of high and low,
From peasant's cottage to the royal palace.
The snow of winter spreads o'er hill and valley
Its soft and silken blue- white veil of sleep;
The springtime bids the green-clad earth to rally,
When through the budding leaves the sunbeams peep.
The autumn brings fresh breezes from the ocean
And paints the lad's fair cheeks a rosy red;
The maiden's heart is stirred with new emotion,
When summer's fragrance o'er the world is spread.
To roam in our fair land is like a dream,
Through these still woods, renowned in ancient story,
Along the shores, deep-mirrored in the gleam
Of fjords that shine beneath the sky's blue glory.
Upon the meadows where the flowers bloom
The elfin maidens hide themselves in slumbers,
But soon along the lakes where shadows gloom
In every bosky nook they'll dance their numbers.
There are no frowning crags on our green mountains,
No dark, forbidding cliffs where gorges yawn;
The streams flow gently seaward from their fountains,
As through the silent valley steals the dawn.
vni — 304
4850
HOLGER DRACHMANN
Here nature smoothes the rugged, tames the savage,
And men born here in victory are kind,
Forbearing still the foeman's land to ravage,
And in defeat they bear a steadfast mind.
I'm proud of land, of kindred, and of nation,
I'm proud my home is where the waters flow;
Afar I see in golden radiation
My native land like sun through amber glow.
Its warmth revives my heart, however lonely:
Forgive me, Princess, if my soul's aflame, —
But rather be at home, a beggar only,
Than, exiled thence, have universal fame.
Translation of Charles Harvey Genung.
4851
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
(1795-1820)
CONSPICUOUS among the young poets, essayists, and journalists,
who made up literary New York in the early part of the
century, was Joseph Rodman Drake, the friend of Halleck,
and the best beloved perhaps of all that brilliant group. Hardly
known to this generation save by *The Culprit Fay* and (The Amer-
ican Flag,* Drake was essentially a true poet and a man of letters.
His work was characteristic of his day. He had a certain amount of
•classical knowledge, a certain eighteenth-century grace and style, yet
withal, an instinctive Americanism which
flowered out into our first true national
literature. The group of writers among
whom were found Irving, Halleck, Wil-
lis, Dana, Hoffman, Verplanck, Brockden
Brown, and a score of others, reflected
that age in which they sought their lit-
erary models. With the exception of Poe,
who belonged to a somewhat later time
and whose genius was purely subjective,
much of the production of these Americans
followed the lines of their English prede-
cessors,— Johnson, Goldsmith, Addison, and
Steele. It is only in their deeper moments JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
of thought and feeling that there sounds
that note of love of country, of genuine Americanism, which gives
their work individuality, and which will keep their memory green.
Drake was born in New York, in August 1795. He was descended
from the same family as the great admiral of Elizabethan days, the
American branch of which had served their country honorably both
in colonial and Revolutionary times. The scenes of his boyhood
were the same as those that formed the environment of Irving,
memories of which are scattered thick through the literature of the
day. New York was still a picturesque, hospitable, rural capital, the
centre of the present town being miles distant in the country. The
best families were all intimately associated in a social life that was
cultivated and refined at the same time that it was gay and uncon-
ventional; and in this society Drake occupied a place which his lov-
able qualities and fine talents must have won, even had it been
43^2 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
denied him by birth. He was a precocious boy, for whom a career
was anticipated by his friends while he was yet a mere child; and
when he met Halleck, in his eighteenth year, he had already won
some reputation.
The friendship of Drake and Halleck was destined to prove infi-
nitely valuable to both. A discussion between Cooper, Halleck, and
Drake, upon the poetic inspiration of American scenery, prompted
Drake to write 'The Culprit Fay) — a poem without any human
character. This he completed in three days, and offered it as the
argument on his side. The scene of the poem is laid in the High-
lands of the Hudson, but Drake added many pictures suggested by
memories of Long Island Sound, whose waters he haunted with boat
and rod. He apologized for this by saying that the purposes of poetry
alone could explain the presence so far up the Hudson of so many
salt-water emigrants. (The Culprit Fay* is a creation of pure fancy,
full of delicate imagery, and handled with an ethereal lightness of
touch. Its exquisite grace, its delicate coloring, its prodigality of
charm, explain its immediate popularity and its lasting fame. But
the Rip Van Winkle legend is a far more genuine product of fancy.
Drake's few shorter lyrics throb with genuine poetic feeling, and
show the loss sustained by literature in the author's early death.
Best known of these is (The American Flag,* which appeared in the
Evening Post as one of a series of jeux d' esprit, the joint productions
of Halleck and Drake, who either alternated in the composition of
the numbers or wrote them together. The last four lines only of
( The American Flag * are Halleck's. The entire series appeared be-
tween March and July, 1819, under the signature of (<The Croakers. M
Literary New York was mystified as to the authorship of these skits,
which hit off the popular fads, follies, and enthusiasms of the day
with so easy and graceful a touch. Politics, music, the drama, and
domestic life alike furnished inspiration for the numbers; some of
whose titles, as < A Sketch of a Debate in Tammany * and < The
Battery War,* suggest the local political issues of the present day.
There is now in existence a handsome edition of these verses, with
the names of the authors of the several pieces appended, and in the
case of the joint ownership with the initials D. and H. subscribed.
Drake's complete poems were not published during his lifetime.
Sixteen years after his death by consumption in his twenty-sixth
year, his daughter issued a volume dedicated to Halleck, in which
were included the best specimens of her father's work. Many of the
lesser known verses indicate his true place as a poet. In the touch-
ing poem <Abelard to Eloise,* in the third stanza of <The American
Flag,* and in innumerable beautiful lines scattered throughout his
work, appears a genuine inspiration.
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 4853
In his own day, Drake filled a place which his death left forever
vacant. His rare and winning personality, his generous friendships,
his joy in life, and his courage in the contemplation of his inevitable
fate, still appeal to a generation to whom they are but traditions.
The exquisite monody in which Halleck celebrated his loss, links their
names and decorates their friendship with imperishable garlands.
A WINTER'S TALE
From <The Croakers >
« A merry heart goes all the way,
A sad one tires in a mile-aP
— WINTER'S TALE.
THE man who frets at worldly strife
Grows sallow, sour, and thin;
Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin :
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold;
He smiles when others sigh;
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,
And laughs through wet and dry.
There's fun in everything we meet;
The greatest, worst, and best
Existence is a merry treat,
And every speech a jest:
Be 't ours to watch the crowds that pass
Where mirth's gay banner waves;
To show fools through a quizzing glass,
And bastinade the knaves.
The serious world will scold and ban,
In clamor loud and hard,
To hear Meigs* called a Congressman,
And Paulding called a bard:
But come what may, the man's in luck
Who turns it all to glee,
And laughing, cries with honest Puck,
<(Good Lord! what fools ye be!w
* Henry Meigs of New York, a Congressman from 1819 to 1821 in the
Sixteenth Congress.
4854
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
THE CULPRIT FAY
My visual orbs are purged from film, and lo!
Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales,
I see old Fairyland's miraculous show!
Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales,
Her ouphs that, cloaked in leaf -gold, skim the breeze,
And fairies, swarming
— TENNANT'S <ANSTER FAIR*
T-I-MS the middle watch of a summer's night —
The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Naught is seen in the vault on high
But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest;
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast,
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark
Glimmers and dies the firefly's spark —
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack.
The stars are on the moving stream,
And fling, as its ripples gently flow,
A burnished length of wavy beam
In an eel-like, spiral line below;
The winds are whist, and the owl is still;
The bat in the shelvy rock is hid;
And naught is heard on the lonely hill
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill
Of the gauze-winged katydid;
And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill,
Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings,
Ever a note of wail and woe,
Till morning spreads her rosy wings,
And earth and sky in her glances glow.
'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell :
The wood- tick has kept the minutes well;
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 4855
He has counted them all with click and stroke
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,
And he has awakened the sentry elve
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the fays to their revelry;
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell —
('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)
<( Midnight conies, and all is well !
Hither, hither, wing your way!
'Tis the dawn of the fairy day.*
They come from beds of lichen green,
They creep from the mullein's velvet screen ;
Some on the backs of beetles fly
From the silver tops of moon-touched trees,
Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high,.
And rocked about in the evening breeze;
Some from the hum-bird's downy nest —
They had driven him out by elfin power,
And pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast,
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour;
Some had lain in the scoop of the rock,
With glittering ising-stars inlaid;
And some had opened the four-o'clock,
And stole within its purple shade.
And now they throng the moonlight glade,
Above, below, on every side,
Their little minim forms arrayed
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride !
They come not now to print the lea,
In freak and dance around the tree,
Or at the mushroom board to sup,
And drink the dew from the buttercup; —
A scene of sorrow waits them now,
For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow;
He has loved an earthly maid,
And left for her his woodland shade;
He has lain upon her lip of dew.
And sunned him in her eye of blue,
Fanned her cheek with his wing of air.
Played in the ringlets of her hair,
And nestling on her snowy breast,
Forgot the lily-king's behest.
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
For this the shadowy tribes of air
To the elfin court must haste away:
And now they stand expectant there,
To hear the doom of the culprit fay.
The throne was reared upon the grass,
Of spice-wood and of sassafras;
On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell
Hung the burnished canopy —
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell
Of the tulip's crimson drapery.
The monarch sat on his judgment seat;
On his brow the , crown imperial shone ;
The prisoner fay was at his feet,
And his peers were ranged around the throne.
He waved his sceptre in the air,
He looked around and calmly spoke;
His brow was grave and his eye severe,
But his voice in a softened accent broke : —
<( Fairy ! Fairy ! list and mark :
Thou hast broke thine elfin chain;
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark,
And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain —
Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity
In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye;
Thou hast scorned our dread decree,
And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high.
But well I know her sinless mind
Is pure as the angel forms above,
Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind,
Such as a spirit well might love;
Fairy! had she spot or taint,
Bitter had been thy punishment:
Tied to the hornet's shardy wings;
Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings;
Or seven long ages doomed to dwell
With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell;
Or every night to writhe and bleed
Beneath the tread of the centipede;
Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim,
Your jailer a spider, huge and grim,
Amid the carrion bodies to lie
Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly:
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 4857
These it had been your lot to bear,
Had a stain been found on the earthly fair.
Now list, and mark our mild decree —
Fairy, this your doom must be: —
<( Thou shalt seek the beach of sand
Where the water bounds the elfin land;
Thou shalt watch the oozy brine
Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine,
Then dart the glistening arch below,
And catch a drop from his silver bow.
The water-sprites will wield their arms
And dash around, with roar and rave,
And vain are the woodland spirits' charms;
They are the imps that rule the wave.
Yet trust thee in thy single might:
If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right,
Thou shalt win the warlock fight.
<{ If the spray-bead gem be won,
The stain of thy wing is washed away;
But another errand must be done
Ere thy crime be lost for aye:
Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, —
Thou must re-illume its spark.
Mount thy steed and spur him high
To the heaven's blue canopy;
And when thou seest a shooting star,
Follow it fast, and follow it far —
The last faint spark of its burning train
Shall light the elfin lamp again.
Thou hast heard our sentence, fay;
Hence ! to the water-side, away ! *
The goblin marked his monarch well;
He spake not, but he bowed him low,
Then plucked a crimson colen-bell,
And turned him round in act to go.
The way is long; he cannot fly;
His soiled wing has lost its power,
And he winds adown the mountain high
For many a sore and weary hour.
Through dreary beds of tangled fern,
Through groves of nightshade dark and dern,
g,g JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
Over the grass and through the brake,
Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake;
Now o'er the violet's azure flush
He skips along in lightsome mood;
And now he thrids the bramble-bush,
Till its points are dyed in fairy blood.
He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier.
He has swum the brook and waded the mire,
Till his spirits sank and his limbs grew weak,
And the red waxed fainter in his cheek.
He had fallen to the ground outright,
For rugged and dim was his onward track,
But there came a spotted toad in sight,
And he laughed as he jumped upon her back:
He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist,
He lashed her sides with an osier thong.
And now, through evening's dewy mist,
With leap and spring they bound along,
Till the mountain's magic verge is past,
And the beach of sand is reached at last.
Up, fairy! quit thy chickweed bower,
The cricket has called the second hour;
Twice again, and the lark will rise
To kiss the streaking of the skies —
Up! thy charmed armor don;
Thou'lt need it ere the night be gone.
He put his acorn helmet on :
It was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down;
The corselet plate that guarded his breast
Was once the wild bee's golden vest;
His cloak, of a thousand mingled dyes,
Was formed of the wings of butterflies;
His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen,
Studs of gold on a ground of green;
And the quivering lance which he brandished bright
Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight.
Swift he bestrode his firefly steed;
He bared his blade of the bent-grass blue;
He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed,
And away like a glance of thought he flew,
To skim the heavens, and follow far
The fiery trail of the rocket-star.
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 4859-
The moth-fly, as he shot in air,
Crept under the leaf and hid her there;
The katydid forgot its lay,
The prowling gnat fled fast away,
The fell mosquito checked his drone
And folded his wings till the fay was gone,
And the wily beetle dropped his head,
And fell on the ground as if he were dead;
They crouched them close in the darksome shade,
They quaked all o'er with awe and fear,
For they had felt the blue-bent blade,
And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear;
Many a time, on a summer's night,
When the sky was clear, and the moon was bright,
They had been roused from the haunted ground
By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound;
They had heard the tiny bugle-horn,
They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string,.
When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn,
And the needle-shaft through air was borne,
Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing.
And now they deemed the courier ouphe
Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground;
And they watched till they saw him mount the roof
That canopies the world around;
Then glad they left their covert lair,
And freaked about in the midnight air.
Up to the vaulted firmament
His path the firefly courser bent,
And at every gallop on the wind,
He flung a glittering spark behind;
He flies like a feather in the blast
Till the first light cloud in heaven is past.
But the shapes of air have begun their work.
And a drizzly mist is round him cast;
He cannot see through the mantle murk;
He shivers with cold, but he urges fast;
Through storm and darkness, sleet and shade.
He lashes his steed, and spurs amain —
For shadowy hands have twitched the rein,
And flame-shot tongues around him played,
And near him many a fiendish eye
Glared with a fell malignity,
.g6o JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear.
Came screaming on his startled ear.
His wings are wet around his breast,
The plume hangs dripping from his crest,
His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare,
And his ears are stunned with the thunder's blare.
But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew;'
He thrust before and he struck behind,
Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through,
And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind;
Howling the misty spectres flew;
They rend the air with frightful cries;
For he has gained the welkin blue,
And the land of clouds beneath him lies.
Up to the cope careering swift,
In breathless motion fast,
Fleet as the swallow cuts the drift,
Or the sea-roc rides the blast,
The sapphire, sheet of eve is shot,
The sphered moon is past,
The earth but seems a tiny blot
On a sheet of azure cast.
Oh! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight,
To tread the starry plain of even!
To meet the thousand eyes of night,
And feel the cooling breath of heaven!
But the elfin made no stop or stay
Till he came to the bank of the Milky Way;
Then he checked his courser's foot,
And watched for the glimpse of the planet-shoot.
Sudden along the snowy tide
That swelled to meet their footsteps' fall,
The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide,
Attired in sunset's crimson pall;
Around the fay they weave the dance,
They skip before him on the plain,
And one has taken his wasp-sting lance,
And one upholds his bridle rein;
With warblings wild they lead him on
To where, through clouds of amber seen,
Studded with stars, resplendent shone
The palace of the sylphid queen.
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 486!
Its spiral columns, gleaming bright.
Were streamers of the northern light;
Its curtain's light and lovely flush
Was of the morning's rosy blush;
And the ceiling fair that rose aboon,
The white and feathery fleece of noon.
Borne afar on the wings of the blast,
Northward away he speeds him fast,
And his courser follows the cloudy wain
Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain.
The clouds roll backward as he flies,
Each flickering star behind him lies,
And he has reached the northern plain,
And backed his firefly steed again,
Ready to follow in its flight
The streaming of the rocket-light.
The star is yet in the vault of heaven,
But it rocks in the summer gale;
And now 'tis fitful and uneven,
And now 'tis deadly pale;
And now 'tis wrapped in sulphur-smoke,
And quenched is its rayless beam;
And now with a rattling thunder-stroke
It bursts in flash and flame.
As swift as the glance of the arrowy lance
That the storm spirit flings from high,
The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue,
As it fell from the sheeted sky.
As swift as the wind in its train behind
The elfin gallops along:
The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud,-
But the sylphid charm is strong;
He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire,
While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze;
He watches each flake till its sparks expire,
And rides in the light of its rays.
But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed,
And caught a glimmering spark;
Then wheeled around to the fairy ground,
And sped through the midnight dark.
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
Ouphe and goblin! imp and sprite!
Elf of eve ! and starry fay !
Ye that love the moon's soft light,
Hither, hither, wend your way;
Twine ye in a jocund ring,
Sing and trip it merrily,
Hand to hand, and wing to wing,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.
Hail the wanderer again
With dance and song, and lute and lyre ;
Pure his wing and strong his chain,
And doubly bright his fairy fire.
Twine ye in an airy round,
Brush the dew and print the lea;
Skip and gambol, hop and bound,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.
The beetle guards our holy ground,
He flies about the haunted place,
And if mortal there be found,
He hums in his ears and flaps his face;
The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay,
The owlet's eyes our lanterns be;
Thus we sing and dance and play,
Round the wild witch-hazel tree.
But hark! from tower on tree-top high,
The sentry elf his call has made;
A streak is in the eastern sky;
Shapes of moonlight! flit and fade!
The hill-tops gleam in Morning's spring,
The skylark shakes his dappled wing,
The day-glimpse glimmers on the lawn, —
The cock has crowed, and the fays are gone.
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 4863
THE AMERICAN FLAG
WHEN Freedom from her mountain height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there;
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then from his mansion in the sun
She called her eagle-bearer down,
And gave unto his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.
Majestic monarch of the cloud!
Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,
And see the lightning lances driven,
When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven —
Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given
To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur-smoke.
To ward away the battle-stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,
The harbingers of victory!
Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,
The sign of hope and triumph high,
When speaks the signal trumpet-tone,
And the long line comes gleaming on :
Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet,
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet,
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn
To where the sky-born glories burn,
And as his springing steps advance,
Catch war and vengeance from the glance;
And when the cannon-mouthings loud
Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud,
And gory sabres rise and fall,
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; —
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
Then shall thy meteor-glances glow,
And cowering foes shall sink beneath
Each gallant arm that strikes below
That lovely messenger of death.
Flag of the seas! on ocean wave
Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;
When death, careering on the gale,
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
And frighted waves rush wildly back
Before the broadside's reeling rack,
Each dying wanderer of the sea
Shall look at once to heaven and thee,
And smile to see thy splendors fly
In triumph o'er his closing eye.
Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valor given;
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us !
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